


The Lost King

by The_Apocryphal_One



Series: Chronicles of the Unexplored [2]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: Assassination, Canon Compliant, Character Death, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, F/M, Gen, Politics, Pre-Game(s), Subterfuge, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-07-22 00:41:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7411648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Apocryphal_One/pseuds/The_Apocryphal_One
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>History, when it bothered to remember King Garon, would only remember him as the lost king who fell prey to an outside force he could not hope to combat, a stepping stone on the way to greater things. But he was a man like anyone else and, before Anankos, had a story like anyone else. A story wrapped in tragedy, but a story that should be told nonetheless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: And here's Garon's fic, like I promised. This isn't going to cover as much time as The Invisible Princess did, nor be as long—about 6 chapters by my estimate. I considered spreading it out to cover the beginning of Garon's reign, but it's more a counterpart to Invisible Princess, an examination of his viewpoint during that period, Chapters 4-6, to be exact. So some of the characterizations and events may make more sense if you read that, now or later. Mostly because I wanted to look at the concubine wars. It starts shortly before IP Chapter 4 and will end shortly after IP Chapter 6.
> 
> Like Aftermath, this is going to update on a "when the chapters are done" basis. And like Aftermath, I'll finish this no matter what, barring an unfortunate and unforeseen accident or death. So don't worry about the lack of a proper schedule.
> 
> Also, I don't think I have to warn you, but this is not going to be a happy fic. The concubine wars were a dark time with dark acts, and I am not going to shy away from that. I hope that doesn't discourage you from reading this anyway, but I figured I'd give you fair warning.
> 
> Disclaimer: Nope, not mine.

 

* * *

Penelope was a sweet girl. She was seven years old, bossy and petulant and headstrong, but actually quite nice deep down. She loved coffee even though she was too young for it and would sneak into the kitchens to steal a cup. Her favorite color was orange and she was good at maths, she hated dresses and she was scared of wyverns and she liked to climb high places so she could see the world spread out beneath her.

Now, she would never do any of that ever again.

"An accident, Your Highness," his butler and retainer, Raoul, said as Garon turned away from the corpse of his daughter with a sigh. Her body had been laid carefully on a table, to be wrapped in a white cloth and taken away for cremation later. Her red eyes were closed, her angelic chocolate curls framing her head like a halo. Were it not for the broken angle of her limbs, she could have been sleeping. "She slipped and fell from her balcony."

"She fell," he repeated. The perpetual ache in his heart throbbed dully. "Of course."

That's what everyone will say. She fell. Young Princess Penelope was leaning over the balcony outside her room and lost her balance and fell and died as soon as she hit the ground, how utterly tragic. No one will mention how Lady Bernice's daughter had been seen suspiciously skulking about the area, or the rivalry Lady Bernice had with Penelope's mother, or the slight smug smile she was said to have worn when the body was discovered. There would be rumors of foul play, of course, but nothing would actually be _done_. Regicide was a crime punishable by death, but the women at his court have turned it into a game, a game where you can dodge punishment if you cover your tracks well enough. And his concubines were very, very good at covering their tracks.

His daughter was dead at the hands of one of her half-sisters, on the orders of one of his former lovers, and all Garon could feel was _tired_.

He pressed a final kiss to her cold forehead and turned away. Another child dead, another funeral to be planned. What he wouldn't give for a stiff drink.

* * *

The next few days passed in a blur of activity and preparation for two funerals. Two, because the fourth day started with the discovery of Penelope's mother, Gertrude, lying in her bed, eyes staring sightlessly up. There was a goblet loose in her hand, a few droplets of wine laced with wyvern venom clinging to the rim, and for once Garon couldn't tell whether she'd actually committed suicide or if she'd been killed beforehand and her body arranged to look like she had. Gertrude had cared for Penelope about as much as the other concubines cared for their children—that is to say, very little—but she knew Garon grew displeased with those who failed to protect his children. She had not had much of Garon's favor to begin with; the loss of her daughter would have spelled the death of her ever earning more, and with it the death of her social status and general future. It wasn't impossible for her to decide taking her own life was all that was left for her.

He ordered her corpse brought away, the concubines giggling at the sight of her body bloated in death. They did not live in the same wing of the palace—when this idiotic "concubine war" had started, he'd immediately sent them and their children into separate parts of Castle Krakenburg, in the vain hopes distance would protect them—but they were like vultures; they always seemed to know when death and trouble were afoot. The show over, most of them disbanded, the women drifting off for their own activities that day. Only one remained, lingering by the pillars in the hall, her daughter hovering by her side. She flashed him a pretty smile, and reluctantly he went over to see her.

"Bernice," he sighed. "I have a lot of things to do today, so make this quick."

The lavender-haired woman dipped into an exaggerated curtsy, her daughter mimicking the motions. "Of course, King Garon. I wouldn't dream of taking any more of your time than necessary."

Bernice had started out a nobody, a lowborn from some remote village who had dabbled and practiced dark magic until she was on-par with Nohr's most trained sorcerers. Ambitious to the core, determined to never go back to her life of poverty, she clawed her way into Garon's court with nothing but her magic, her wits, and her beauty. Dark magic had little place in courtly intrigue; it left a certain residue in the air and it was too easy to trace. But she had other skills, other talents.

Garon would never forget the look of disappointment in Katerina's eyes when he confirmed that Bernice's bastard daughter Camilla was indeed his. He hadn't been able to help it! She'd been so lovely, with her rich honeyed voice and silky purple hair and voluptuous body in its sorceress's robes, and he and Katerina had been fighting, and—excuses, all of them. He knew they were just excuses. He was in the wrong, and he was shamed.

But Bernice was the first of many. Tanya, a camp follower he'd slept with while stressed and on the road, had shown up with a bundle in her arms, and then there was Edith, a noblewoman who promised her family's allegiance in exchange for a child, and then Ariadne and her attractive intelligence, and then, and then, and _then_. One after another after another.

Every single time, he told himself he would stop. Every single time, he would fail, and another woman would birth another bastard. Women were his alcohol, his gambling addiction, and he couldn't shake it. It certainly didn't help matters that many of the women in his court actively _tried_ to seduce him. It was like expecting an alcoholic to resist a bottle of ale, when the ale was following you around and practically begging you to take it.

Bernice cleared her throat, bringing him out of his memories and back to the present. "I merely wanted to inform you that Camilla is ahead of all the other children in her lessons."

"Indeed?" Although he knew Bernice was merely trying to make herself look good by proxy, and although he knew that Camilla had likely killed Penelope, pride swelled in him nonetheless. His eyes dropped to the young girl, who was keeping her gaze downcast. His voice softened. "Look at me, Camilla."

She slowly did. Her eyes were sad, haunted, and that was all the confirmation he needed. Camilla was such an adoring sister. She was so full of love and always had a kind word to say to her half-siblings, no matter how nasty they could be to her; so very protective of her younger ones and concerned for her older ones.

But like all his children, she longed for her mother's approval the most, and would obey her orders without question. If Bernice told her to assassinate one of her half-siblings, she would do it, no matter how much it broke her heart. And she had, and now Penelope's body was being prepared for her funeral, years too early. But he didn't blame her for what she'd done, not when her mother wielded her like a weapon. He would tell her not to blame herself if he didn't know the words wouldn't do anything to make the guilt go away.

"It pleases me to hear you're doing well," he said instead, and her face practically glowed at his praise. "You would make any father proud."

"Don't rest on your laurels, however," Bernice interjected. "Never forget, Camilla, that life is cruel. You must be cruel right back if you wish to survive."

Camilla dipped her head, her face melting back into its blank mask. "Yes, Mother."

"Remember, though," Garon added, "Cruelty doesn't necessitate isolation. You can be equally as cruel to your enemies as you are kind to your loved ones."

Bernice dared to direct a glare at him before, remembering who he was, hastily smoothing her face over into a smile. "Your words are valuable treasures, Your Majesty. Thank you for offering them. Camilla, come."

His daughter repeated the thanks and scurried off after her mother, but a little bit of light had returned to her eyes, and Garon hoped dearly his words would assuage her worries and fears. He offered a silent prayer to the Dusk Dragon, as he did daily, to guard his children's hearts as much as their lives, especially the heart of his second-eldest-no, eldest now-daughter.

* * *

After another long day managing the affairs of Nohr, Garon was looking forward to returning to his wife. But when he reached the royal suite, Katerina wasn't present. A quick search revealed her to be in their son's room, sitting on his bed. Xander was nestled under her arm, asleep, the open book on Katerina's lap depicting the legend of the Dusk Dragon and the foundation of Nohr.

She looked up and smiled when she saw him, raising a single finger to her lips. Garon nodded, gazing down at Xander, his face softening involuntarily as it did around all his children. His eldest son had inherited his blonde curls and most of his facial features, but his eyes were different, soft brown like Katerina's instead of Garon's red. He was such a shy boy, quiet and reserved and not particularly skilled at anything, and it was devastating to his self-esteem. Even Garon's words that his lack of talent didn't matter, that just having his presence was a blessing, didn't do much for him.

"I heard about Gertrude and Penelope," Katerina whispered, gently tucking Xander into bed and stooping to press a kiss to his brow. Garon extended an arm, and she took it, following him out of their son's room. He drank in her beautiful face, letting the sight of it serve as a balm to his aching soul.

His wife hailed from a high-class family responsible for breeding and raising some of the wyverns for Nohr; it was only natural she'd grow up with a talent for handling the animals. Like many in Nohr, she took to mercenary work, she and her wyvern managing deliveries and honing their battle skills in equal measures. Garon's parents had arranged for them to be married to secure her family's loyalty early in his life, and they'd often played together as children. Falling in love with her was easy; doing right by her was not.

Katerina's position on his concubines was a precarious one. She was definitely hurt by his weakness, but at the same time she could understand why he kept the women around. Some of them hailed from noble families, bringing their wealth or land or men or loyalty to his court, and kicking them out risked losing their family's allegiances. Others had nothing but talent to their name, talent enough to overcome all adversity and earn high positions, talent he did not want to risk crossing or losing. And then there were the children—how would they react if he had them separated from their mothers, or threw them out with them? No, letting them stay was the best choice.

Except for the small fact that the women always fought like cats, vying for his favor and for various positions of power. And worse, they encouraged their children to do the same! No matter what he did, he couldn't seem to stop them. He was a failure, and his children were paying the price for it.

At least Katerina herself was safe from the political intrigues of the court, though that was mostly because she was so beloved by Nohr that anyone who killed or replaced her would face much public wrath. Still, understanding why he let the women stay was different from accepting the fact that he strayed, and his infidelities were often a point of contention between them. But tonight, she didn't raise the subject. She always knew how the guilt and grief gnawed at him when one of his children died. "How are you feeling, love?"

He pulled his crown off, letting it dangle loosely in one hand as they reached their quarters. "Exhausted," he sighed, dropping into one of the plush chairs set in front of a toasty fire. Katerina took the one opposite, an apologetic look on her face.

"Then I'm sorry to say I have something that will make your evening worse."

Garon contemplated just asking her to put it off until morning. But the affairs of the kingdom demanded immediate attention. "Very well. What is it?"

Rather than answering, Katerina handed him a scroll with the Hoshidan royal seal on it. "It just came in…"

He took it and ran his tired eyes over the contents. It was, overall, a short and simple proclamation: Hoshido was raising the taxes on food. Such a short thing, but so impactful…

"They can't do that," he said numbly when he finished reading it.

Katerina sighed. "It seems they are."

Nohr and Hoshido had a long and tense history. They had served on opposing sides in the First War, and even after peace was brokered remained suspicious and wary of the other, frequently clashing in smaller wars and battles. It wasn't until Nohr's crops began to fail a hundred years ago that they even tolerated the idea of approaching Hoshido for peaceful reasons. Fortunately the Hoshidan king of that time had been willing to negotiate, but unease and racism still permeated both countries to this day.

Nohr's reputation as warmongers, while unfair in Garon's opinion, wasn't entirely inaccurate. They had few natural resources other than minerals, ore and gems, and they did make money off that, but not everyone had the skill or the desire to work in mines. Those who didn't—and there were many—chose to join the mercenary guild to be trained in various skills and dispatched to take on jobs in other countries. The guild had people of all professions, from assassins to thieves to poachers to regular soldiers, and they were one of the biggest contributors to income; at the beginning of their foundation, they'd promised the ruler of the time to give a portion of their earnings in exchange for the ability to operate freely. And they earned quite a bit.

But not enough for Nohr to reasonably pay what Hoshido was asking and still have enough money to cover the rest of their expenses.

Rage colored his vision red as his hands shook, threatening to tear the letter in two. Hoshido had done this _knowing_ that they would have no choice _but_ to pay money they couldn't afford to part with. Nohr's _only_ constant source of food was _taking advantage_ of them.

It took all of Garon's self-control to not crumple the letter up and throw it into the fire. If Katerina hadn't placed a hand over his, her cool touch returning him to his senses, he may well have. Instead he very careful put it down and rested his hands on his knees, curling them into fists. "Damn Sumeragi," he growled. "Damn Hoshido. Damn them all."

* * *

Three things happened in the next week.

The first was Garon writing a hasty letter beseeching Sumeragi to reconsider and praying fervently that he would listen.

The second was receiving a second letter at the end of the week, politely telling him the new prices were non-negotiable.

The third was Garon, left with no choice, ordering his soldiers to start raiding Hoshido.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And that's the prologue to get the battle rolling. Now, Garon has a lot of concubines and children, and keeping track of them all could get difficult. So here's a quick guide to the ones with an involvement in the plot—you may hear other names get tossed about, but these are the only ones who are actually important. The women have their classes in parenthesis next to them, and the kids have their ages (see if you can guess what their classes are based off!):
> 
> Katerina (Wyvern Lord) - Alexander (Xander) (7 going onto 8)
> 
> Bernice (Sorceress) - Camilla (6 going onto 7)
> 
> Jeanette (Adventurer) - Josephine (Josie) (4)
> 
> Vesta (Maid) - Leonidas (Leo) (1)


	2. Chapter 2

“It is getting harder to sneak past the Hoshidans deployed all along the Bottomless Canyon. Their soldiers are set up near all the main pass exits, ready to strike, and we can never tell where their ninja are. Attempting to go over has met with failure, as their archers have sharp eyes, easily spotting and felling any wyvern riders. We still have several secret paths they haven’t discovered, so it’s still possible to raid them for supplies, but it takes longer; the villages near the border are under guard, and battles are no longer free of casualties.”

The soldier, a promising and up-coming cavalier named Gunter, finished his report with the customary salute, hands locking behind his back as he bowed. Garon steepled his fingers together, hiding his frown behind them as he gazed out the window. His office was set in one of the highest towers of Castle Krakenburg, giving him a nearly 360 degree view. As the castle was underground there wasn’t much to look, at truth be told, but the sight of the surrounding stone walls was somehow comforting.

It had been several months since the missive from Hoshido. The new year was almost upon them, and Nohr was experiencing its usual bitterly cold winters, the frequent snowstorms hiding the barrenness of the ground beneath white. At first, everything had been alright. Their raids procured less food than they would have obtained just by training, but there was no monetary cost at all. Garon had actually been able to use some of the saved coin to finish a project to improve equipment for Nohrian miners.

But then, a few weeks ago, Sumeragi had deployed Hoshidan troops along the border. Garon had to admit he hadn’t been expecting that. To be completely honest, he’d thought the movements of Nohrian soldiers would scare the Hoshidans into backing down with a whimper. _Apparently they have some spine after all_.

It was a blatant warning not to continue, and they risked a war with Hoshido if they did. While Garon knew his army was larger, better-trained, and better-equipped, he was still hesitant. It was doubtful any countries would take the side of the “warmongers”, or be willing to trade with them, if they provoked Hoshido. They would be in a race against time, fighting on hungry bellies, and even if they invaded Hoshido he wouldn’t put it past them to burn their own farmlands simply to stop Nohr from taking them. And of course, the intra-court politics were always a pressing matter.

But they _needed_ to eat.

“Spread the word that any criminal who wishes for a royal pardon can earn it by raiding Hoshido for food,” he finally said. “Have them sign up at the mercenary guild’s headquarters in Windmire. Give them weapons and armor—nothing with the insignia of the Nohrian army, of course—and point them at the border.”

And if the Hoshidan soldiers happened to kill some of those criminals? Well, the world was better off without their kind of scum.

Gunter bowed sharply. “It will be done.” He turned sharply on his heel, walking briskly to the door.

“How are your wife and son?” Garon asked suddenly, bringing the cavalier to a halt.

Gunter turned, smiling a little questioningly. “They are well, my lord. Alois is turning six soon, and dead-set on learning to ride and use a sword like his father. He’s quite a handful for his mother, bless her heart.”

“That’s good to hear.” _It must be nice,_ Garon thought with a bare hint of resentment, _having a loving family free of fighting_. He missed having that. He used to have a little brother and sister, Marcel and Diane, and the three of them would play together often, filling the halls of Castle Krakenburg with their laughter. Their parents had been distant, too busy running the kingdom to have time for their children, but they’d been happy.

His brother had gotten consumption when he was thirteen and died coughing up his own blood. His sister had been married off when she was fifteen and died giving birth to a stillborn girl. His parents had died when their ship to Notre Sagesse was caught in a storm and wrecked. Garon still missed them all.

A polite cough echoed, and with a start Garon realized he must have been lost in thought for some time, Gunter patiently waiting for permission to leave. “Excuse me. You are dismissed, Gunter.”

* * *

Days turned to weeks. Despite the animosity with Hoshido, Nestra, Izumo, Mokushu and Notre Sagesse were fortunately still willing to trade with Nohr—no military and mining contracts would have meant the collapse of their economy. The old year passed and the new came; the criminals were successful in their raids, and while Hoshido must have suspected Garon’s hand in this, they had nothing to prove it with. Their soldiers remained in a deadlock at the borders. Garon received word from his spies that the Hoshidan queen had birthed her third child, and once again couldn’t help feeling jealous. The king there had a concubine too, and had even had a bastard with her, but by all accounts _they_ weren’t fighting. _Even Sumeragi’s family life is better than mine._

But while the situation with Hoshido was in stasis, life at the court was far from. Power was success was prosperity; commoners struggled to climb the social ladder while nobles at the top struggled to put them down. Even his concubines couldn’t help drawing an arbitrary line between those who were _born_ to power and those who had _bled_ for power; you were more likely to see concubines of noble birth temporarily ally with each other than with a lowborn. Even regular conversation was a battle with them.

One day, for example, as Garon was walking to breakfast, he passed Vesta and Bernice in the halls, both their smiles thin and knife-sharp. Camilla was at her mother’s side as always, looking embarrassed to just be there, while little Leo was in Vesta’s arms, his young, wide eyes taking everything in—they must have run into each other on their way to drop their children off at the classroom and nursery, respectively. “Lady Bernice,” Vesta simpered. “You look absolutely _dreadful_ this morning. Have you been sleeping well?”

“I’m afraid not,” Bernice sighed, eyes fluttering to Garon, who began picking up his pace as subtly as he could. “The maids are quite terrible at their jobs, my bed has felt like stone for ages. You might want to have a word with your fellows, Lady Vesta, their incompetence reflects badly upon you.”

“I certainly shall,” the ginger replied sweetly. “Clearly you need your beauty sleep.”

The rest of their “conversation” was lost to Garon’s ears as he finally left hearing range. Vesta was from one of the several noble houses that produced servants, bodyguards and retainers for the royal family. She was witty and brilliant and skilled, and up until he’d slept with her had been one of Katerina’s retainers. After that, Katerina had fired her, and Vesta had become one of the castle parlor maids. Despite that, she was well-respected among her fellow servants and had eyes and ears everywhere, with many of them preferring to side with her over the rest of the concubines. Bernice, being of common birth, hated her, and the feeling was mutual.

Besides court life, rumors abounded about a duke planning insurrection—Duke Emeric, to be specific, the late Gertrude’s brother. Known for being hot-headed, Garon’s spies had reported the duke had been enraged upon hearing of the mysterious deaths of his sister and niece, “ranting up and down throughout his estate” and vowing vengeance. He hoped the man wasn’t foolish enough to _actually_ try to rebel—Emeric only had a private army, easily dwarfed by Garon’s own, and would be crushed with little difficulty. Now more than ever Nohr needed to at least _present_ a united front.

* * *

Garon tried to always take a little time out of his day to visit his children. With the emotional neglect their mothers inflicted on them, it was up to him to make sure they knew just how loved each and every one of them was. Katerina liked to tease him about the journal he kept on him, full of careful information about their birthdays, likes and dislikes.

His first stop was always the nursery, where the ones under four stayed under the watchful eyes of their nursemaids. Each one had had their backgrounds checked and been thoroughly grilled before being hired, and were instructed to never let their charge out of their site or give them to anyone but Garon or their mothers. This morning’s visit was dominated by Josie, who ran around excited about her upcoming birthday and how she’d be “a big kid” soon, and demanded everyone be just as happy.

The ones too old for the nursery were hired tutors and attended various lessons. It was usually a bit harder to meet with his elder children all at once, since the times they were together were the times they were busy learning. Visiting them in a group, additionally, usually resulted in them trying to compete with each other for attention. So instead, he went to each of their rooms in the evening, just before bed, speaking to them privately.

As he exited the room of one of his older sons, Damian, he saw his eldest hovering in the hall outside. Katerina was at Xander’s side, smiling at him encouragingly. Garon raised an eyebrow; Xander looked as though he were going to faint, his face pale. He was unable to hold eye contact with the king as he approached, stammering, “Um…F-Father…”

“Yes, son?” he said kindly.

“G-Good night.”

Garon smiled. “Good night, Xander.” He waited a moment, and when Xander failed to say anything else, added, “Was that all?”

His son’s mouth moved wordlessly for several moments. Then, face going from white to red at amazing speed, Xander turned and practically ran down the hall to his bedroom. Garon stared after him in puzzled amazement, then turned to the only one capable of explaining the situation. “What did I say?”

Katerina smiled, a little sadly. “Nothing. You know he’s always been intimidated by you. In his mind, you’re this great, unflappable man, the very picture of what a king should strive to be. And in his mind, he’s just a weak boy who can’t uphold your legacy.”

“I’ve told him not to think like that,” Garon sighed. As they started to head to their room he glanced down the hall, over his shoulder. “Should we go after him?”

His wife hummed thoughtfully, finally shaking her head. “No, I think it’s best to leave him alone for now. He told me he was going to try talking to you for more than a few sentences at a time to change his ‘ineptitude’. He must be terribly embarrassed, and no doubt will feel worse if we try to ‘baby’ him.”

“Comfort isn’t the same as babying.”

“Try telling that to him. He can be quite stubborn and set in his ways.” She gave him a mischievous look as they entered their suite. “Just like a certain someone I know.”

Garon snorted, hands already beginning to remove his gloves and boots when his eyes spotted the object folded on the table. He went over to it, picking it up and examining it—it was a cape, long and red and lined with mink fur.

“Surprise,” Katerina said, wrapping her arms around him from behind.

He glanced over his shoulder to meet her doe brown eyes. “A present? What’s the occasion?”

“Nothing. I just thought you could use something nice.”

“Did you make this?” he teased, knowing full well Katerina had a notorious lack of talent for typical ‘ladylike’ things.

“I hunted the mink,” she said brightly. “Does that count?”

Laughter, honest, healthy laughter, broke out of Garon. Katerina smiled, delighted at her success in cheering up her husband. Still chuckling, Garon kissed her, and then they prepared to retire for bed.

* * *

The only warning Garon got was a prickling at the edge of his consciousness, his warrior’s instincts shouting danger and pulling him out of his hazy dreams.

His eyes flew open in time to see the silhouette over him, the silver gleam of a knife as it came plunging down. With a yell he kicked out, his foot tangled in his bedsheets but still connecting with the assassin, staggering him just enough for the knife to lace through Garon’s arm instead of his chest. The king threw the covers off and jumped up, his eyes flickering to Bolverk leaning against the far wall, then the assassin, who had regained his footing, gauging the distance.

 _Too far_. Grimly, without taking his eyes off his opponent, Garon reached under his pillow and withdrew a dagger of his own. It had been a while since he’d used a blade, but it was better than trying to hold off a knife with his bare hands, or go for the axe on the far end of the room.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Katerina on her feet on the opposite side of the bed, blinking away the last vestiges of sleep, facing off against a second assassin wielding an axe. His blood boiled in anger and he longed to go to her aid, but he knew better than to turn his back on a threat. He would have to trust that Katerina could handle herself, unused to unmounted combat as she was.

The room was dark, with the only light being a sliver from the crescent moon outside, just barely enough to see by. The assassin’s face was hidden behind a mask, only his eyes visible. They narrowed at Garon, and then in a blur of movement the man rushed him. The king gritted his teeth, swinging his dagger to parry the blow. The clang of steel echoed throughout the room, and the two men strained against each other, trying to force the other back.

In a move the assassin clearly wasn’t expecting, Garon dropped his arm and swayed to the side. The sudden lack of resistance caused his assailant to lose his balance, his knife slicing against the king’s side in a shallow line. Taking advantage of his brief disorientation, Garon grabbed the man’s wrist with his free hand and _twisted_.

He could almost hear the _snap_ over the sounds of his wife fighting off her opponent. A slight intake of breath was the only sign of the assassin’s pain—he was well-trained. But he was disabled and trapped and helpless, and it was easy for Garon to bring the hand holding his dagger back up and plunge it into the man’s throat. With a wet gurgle, his assailant fell, dead.

Garon withdrew his dagger and immediately turned to see how his wife was doing. She had grabbed the nearest available object upon awakening—a heavy silver candlestick—and was managing to fend off the axe’s blows with it. Before he could go to her assistance, Katerina, spotting an opportunity, spun the candlestick in her hands and slammed it into the assassin’s face. He crumpled, blood pouring from his nose. She stood over him, panting, looking every bit the victorious warrior and queen she was.

It happened in the blink of an eye. A shadow fell from the ceiling behind her, briefly blocking the moonlight as it crossed the window. Katerina gasped, the tip of a blade emerging from between her breasts. Blood dribbled out of her mouth, flowing from the wound and staining her purple nightgown red. The third, previously unseen assassin withdrew her sword, and his wife, his Katerina, collapsed. Garon vaguely registered the sound of himself screaming, and disregarding all personal safety he charged, hands gripping his knife tightly.

She ducked beneath his first clumsy, angry blow, her sword—stained with blood, with _Katerina’s_ blood!—nipping at his chest. Before he could swing again, the doors burst open, the guards _finally_ drawn over by the noise, and she broke away, knowing when she was outnumbered. She backflipped away from him and, to Garon’s shock, darted through the secret passage behind his bookshelf—the passage he’d failed to notice was open, the hidden door swinging open on its hinges. His two retainers rushed into the room alongside the guards, hastily dressed with weapons in hand; Raoul immediately chased the assassin down the passage, several of the soldiers tailing him.

“Jeanette!” Garon roared when his second retainer made to follow, bringing her attention back to him. They still had difficulty looking each other in the eye now, years later. Sleeping with your retainer was awkward. Having a child with your retainer morseo. Having to keep serving with your retainer while she plotted to kill your other children and/or lovers? Indescribably awkward. But in times of crisis, in danger, they were able to act professionally and ignore their past affair. Such as now.

Jeanette’s eyes widened when she saw the prone form on the ground, illuminated by the silver moonlight. The raven-haired adventurer rushed past him and ducked beside the queen, not wasting any time in pulling out Heal. Her staff cast a blue light onto everything as she began channeling the spell. Her brow furrowed in concentration. Garon gritted his teeth as seconds ticked by, waiting for the moment she would sit back in relief as Katerina’s wound began to close.

Waiting, as the blood kept flowing and his wife’s body kept twitching sporadically.

_Why isn’t it working?_

Jeanette slowly pulled Heal back. Her blue eyes flicked nervously to Garon’s red. “I…I can’t…her wound is too great, I can’t heal it…”

 _Is it really too great, or are you just letting her die?_ Garon wanted to accuse, but bit his tongue. He cast his gaze about desperately, but the guards left were young, inexperienced and untrained in healing, and they simply stared at their queen in horror. His chest felt as though a heavy weight had been dropped on it. Had it really only been earlier this very evening they’d been laughing and smiling?

 _Dusk Dragon,_ he begged wordlessly, _save her, please, please save her._

But the god was silent, and Katerina continued to bleed out.

He shoved Jeanette aside to be next to his beloved, clenching her hand tightly, futilely trying to cling to her even as she slipped away. Her eyes, which had up until then been flitting about in shock-induced confusion, snapped to him. Blood dribbled from the corner of her mouth, which was trying to twitch into one last smile for his sake. “Sorry, love…” she murmured, her hand raising to brush away the wetness on his cheeks for a brief instant before falling to her side, limp.

And there, in his bedroom, uncaring of his bleeding cuts and those watching, King Garon cradled his wife’s body close to his chest and wept.

* * *

The queen’s death was devastating to Nohr—everyone had loved her, and everyone grieved her death, Nohrian black garments being set aside for mournful white. Peasantry who couldn’t afford such things instead obtained scraps of white cloth and tied them around an arm.

There was to be an investigation, though they had very few leads. Of the three assassins, one had escaped, one had been killed by Garon, and the third, the one Katerina had knocked out, had committed suicide. He’d bitten through his tongue as he sat in his cell, rightly deciding that death was better than being tortured for information or betraying his employers.

Garon wouldn’t be able to spearhead the investigation, but he’d told the man in charge he wanted every update and submitted a list of names of possible culprits. Including the names of some of his concubines— he’d thought Katerina was _safe_ from the infighting of his concubines, thought her status as nationally loved would protect her. But clearly he’d been wrong, and there were some he could think of who might have had a hand in this. Bernice had the ambition to try for the throne despite the risks, and her magic might have allowed her to divine a way to get the assassins into the castle. And then there were Vesta and Jeanette; the two, having been retainers for the king and queen once, were among the few who knew about the secret passage. Any of them could have done it.

Xander had tried not to cry when he learned of his mother’s death in the morning. Garon’s heart had almost cracked in two when he saw his young son, only eight, clenching his jaw as he tried to keep his face from contorting in the grief he felt and hold back the tears in his eyes. “It’s okay, Xander,” he’d said quietly. “It’s okay to cry.”

“A king…m-must be st-strong…” Xander had sniffed in response. “And not show…n-not show…”

Then he’d crumpled, sobbing openly, and Garon took him in his arms and cradled his son like he was a baby again.

Everything had been done or was almost done for the funeral, which was occurring at the end of this week.  His wife’s body had been prepared, cleaned of blood and carefully preserved with magic. Construction for her funeral pyre in the middle of Windmire was finishing. Garon had sent word to a new street singer of esteemed talent—Ariel? Ariana? Arete? Yes, that was it, Arete—that he was commissioning her to sing there. Katerina had loved music even though she’d had no skill for it herself. She would have wanted it at her funeral.

And now, Garon had one more thing to do as he strode to the royal stables.

Katerina’s wyvern was a beautiful specimen. Icarus, she’d called him. He was large with dark purple scales that glittered like amethysts in the scarce sunny days of Nohr. His temperament was ferocious in battle but gentle outside it, the perfect combination, and he had sired many new young wyverns, a strong future generation for Nohr’s future wyvern riders. Dark eyes, particularly intelligent even for his species, and a fine frill around his head completed his look.

Now, lying with his head on wings, he didn’t seem so magnificent. His once-shiny purple scales were dull, his frills were drooping, and soft croons emerged from his throat. He was mourning, in the way all wyverns mourn their riders. He perked up briefly when Garon came in, recognizing him as his rider’s husband, then went back to his sad warbling.

Garon gazed at him for a long time. He knew, logically, Icarus needed to be killed. A wyvern allowed only one person to ride it, ever, and should the rider die would fall into listlessness. A wyvern that would not ride into battle nor breed was a liability, a drain on resources. Icarus would contribute far more to Nohr by dying than living. His meat would make for a fine stew, his claws and fangs could be fashioned into weapons or jewelry, his scales into armor, and his eyes and organs would find use in some dark mage’s spell. Then, if the rider gave pre-mortem permission, what was left could be brought back as an undead mount for the malig knight division, though Katerina hadn’t wanted that for Icarus. Not for her wyvern.

She had loved Icarus so much. In their youth, as foolish teenagers, Garon had actually been a bit jealous, and she’d laughed and planted a kiss on his mouth, assuring him he was the only man for her. Garon’s fists clenched and unclenched at the memory.

Icarus crooned softly, sadly, nudging Garon’s hand. His shiny black eyes reflected the grief in the king’s own, the sense of loss and disorientation he felt without his rider—the same things Garon felt without his wife.

Even creatures as fierce as they, as battle-hardened as they, had hearts, and theirs were broken.

Garon turned to the keeper of the wyverns. “Make it fast,” he said, not trusting himself to speak more. Ordering the death of Katerina’s wyvern, even knowing it was for the best, even knowing she herself would have told him to do it, felt like betraying her, and he didn’t want to spend more time on it than necessary.

The man bowed and, taking Icarus’s reins, nudged the wyvern up. His throat tight, Garon watched the man lead Icarus away until he could bear it no more. He stormed off, angry at the man and the assassins and at himself and at the world. He went to his room, grabbed Bolverk, and, ignoring the things that needed to still be done, went to the training grounds where he smashed dummies until his palms were scrapped raw and bloody.

* * *

A few days before Katerina’s funeral was due to start, the singer arrived at Castle Krakenburg.

Arete stood out for a number of reasons. She was beautiful in an exotic way, silky blue hair and unusual golden eyes, but her dress was plain and threadbare compared to the rich finery of those among his court. A little girl, no more than four, hid behind her skirts, only her small face visible. She ducked her head when she saw Garon looking at her. Her mother, despite her low birth, carried herself like royalty, and her curtsy was deep and formal. All in all, quite the mysterious picture she painted.

“My condolences for the death of your wife,” she said softly as she rose. “I hope the investigation finds the perpetrators soon.”

 _She speaks finely for a woman of the streets._ “Your condolences are appreciated,” he responded. “I have no doubt we shall uncover the men or women behind this plot, and once we do, they shall face the justice of Nohr.” His fingers tightened around Bolverk involuntarily.

And that was that. A butler appeared to escort the singer and her daughter to the room they’d be living in for the duration of the visit. As they disappeared from view, Garon leaned back on his throne and sighed. Arete’s words, while kind, had once again brought melancholy back to his mind.

_Whoever is responsible for your death, Katerina, they won’t get away with it. I swear it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And there is our first look at Arete. I considered putting her appearance off ‘til next chapter, but to me it flowed better at the end of this one. I’ve very little experience writing swordfights (or, well, dagger fights), so feedback is appreciated. I’m also eager to hear who people think is involved with the assassination plot, though correct guesses won’t be told they’re right, of course!


	3. Chapter 3

 

The funeral of Queen Katerina of Nohr was held on a chilly spring morning, in the city square of Windmire. Her funeral pyre had been constructed out of the finest wood, stacked like a pyramid, and her body dressed in her battle regalia. What was left of Icarus’s large form had been brought to the pyre to be burned alongside his mistress—she would be honored as a warrior first and queen second. Everyone from the city attended, and even some not from the city made the harrowing travel. The streets were overflowing; the queen had been beloved by all. Commoners had loved her for the efforts she put into bettering their lives, nobles for her fine breeding. Her kind, calm demeanor had additionally endeared her to the people—gentleness was rare in Nohr.

It was normally custom for the departed’s spouse or children to give a speech, but Garon had no words. He let his silence be his speech, the lack of oration showing his grief better than words ever could.

With a deep breath, the king raised a fist in the air. The dozen mages who surrounded the pyre mimicked the motion, their other hand holding fire tomes. He waited the customary three seconds, then brought his hand down. The mages cast their spells, and as the first flames started to lick at the wood, Arete opened her mouth and began to sing the piece Garon had requested. “ _Dusk has taken you, love, and now I wait for night…_ ”

It was indescribable. Her dirge was haunting, a song of sorrow and pain, a lamentation that reached deep into one’s heart and resonated so much as to hurt. Garon had thought he’d cried all his tears out earlier, but as her voice rang out he found more slipping down his cheeks. Even the concubines, with their hearts of stone, were moved to wipe their eyes.

_“…and lo, the stars are falling, far beyond my sight…”_

_Dusk Dragon, she’s_ talented. _Why in the name of the gods is she stuck in the streets?_

Xander sobbed quietly next to him. Garon placed a hand on the weeping boy’s shoulder, staring into the flames. He refused to acknowledge his own tears, refused to twitch or make any other movement as he watched his wife’s body be consumed by fire, permanently out of his reach.

_“…you are gone but not forgotten; in the wind I taste your kiss, in the rain I taste your tears…”_

When they’d first discovered how to resurrect dead wyverns, some sorcerers had tried to learn to resurrect dead _people_ —a terrible, blasphemous crime, one that went against the will of the Dusk Dragon. The offenders all been quickly executed and it had become common practice to burn bodies to prevent such atrocities ever again. Only criminals or those who couldn’t afford it were buried.

Katerina’s ashes would be gathered and placed in a fine urn, and the urn would be placed in the same tomb that held generations of Nohrian royalty. She would go down in the history books and her legacy would live on in their son. Gone, but not forgotten.

 “ _…as I count the empty days and months and years,”_ Arete finished, her voice trailing off, as the flames reached their zenith. 

* * *

“Miss Arete,” Garon greeted as the blue-haired woman took the seat opposite of him, her sleeping daughter in her arms. He’d noticed she rarely left her alone, likely a byproduct of life on the streets. It was the day after the funeral, and the sky through the window was as cloudy and dark as ever. The mink’s cape his wife had given him—her final gift—was wrapped around his shoulders. He didn’t think he’d stopped wearing it since her death, or that he ever would.

“Your Majesty,” she said with a dip of her head. “I wasn’t expecting to receive my payment from you directly.”

“Your payment, yes…” He frowned down at his desk, toying with a quill between his fingers. “To be honest, that isn’t why I called you here.” He leaned forward, clasping his hands together. “I’ve had a hard past few days and I have little patience for courtly games at the moment, so allow me to be frank: I want to hire you as court musician.”

A pause. “Your Majesty,” she finally said. “I’m flattered, but I must decline. My talent lies only in my voice, not with an instrument. I would be a poor fit for the position.”

“A voice _is_ an instrument, is it not? It’s something you have to train and use. You have talent; it’s a pity to let it waste away on the streets,” he tried to persuade.

She was not moved. “My voice can bring people joy whether it is on the streets or in a castle, my lord. The only difference is the status of those it reaches.”

“What about your daughter?” he countered pointedly, and she flinched. “Do you want her to live on the streets, constantly worrying where her next meal comes from or whether someone will try to hurt her? You would both be safer and happier living in the castle.”

Arete smiled grimly, recovering. “Would we?” she asked. “Poverty hides people. No one notices another street rat and her young girl, except thugs looking for potential victims.” Her hand drifted to her belt, to the worn-out tome hanging off it. “And those who do soon find their worldviews corrected.”

That was not the answer he had expected. Garon asked softly, “Who are you hiding from?”

Her eyes, large and golden, seemed to pierce into his soul, as if she were weighing the worthiness of it. “Someone I hope never finds me,” she finally said.

She would say no more on the matter, and Garon decided it was best to leave it alone. But after arguing the benefits of court musician and promising that his men would protect her and her daughter, he was able to get her to concede and stay.

* * *

The investigator, named Basil, was a tall, reedy man with a thin black mustache. He had served Garon for several years now, and the king trusted him to not sabotage the investigation or attempt to misdirect the blame. A week after Katerina’s funeral, Basil clapped his heels together smartly and presented Garon a piece of paper, a summary of his findings in that time period.

“I’ve interviewed the mercenaries’ guild,” Basil reported as Garon ran his eyes over the jumbled handwriting, “They denied having the assassins in their employ or ever taking a job to assassinate Queen Katerina. Their records and employee history support this, and showed no signs of being tampered with.”

Of course the guild would deny being involved. No one would want even the tiniest link to regicide. However, given their long and steady working relationship with the crown, it was likely they genuinely had nothing to do with this. They wouldn’t want to jeopardize a long-term employer, after all. But it was still an avenue that had to be checked.

“So that means the assassin were hired from one of the auxiliary guilds…” Garon murmured. The criminal half of Nohr, the people who would take the dark and dirty jobs the main mercenary guild would not. They were the ones you went to for _real_ crimes, not political games but genuine crimes against the crown. They were the ones who would be willing to assassinate a queen, for the right price.

“I believe so, yes. I intend to search them next—carefully, of course.” Basil dug something out of his pocket and held it out for Garon to see. “Additionally, have you taken a look at the coins found on the assassin’s body?”

“They’re gold,” he said, disinterested. The world’s coinage was copper, silver and gold, with each country’s coins bearing the face of their founding ruler. Nothing unusual about these typical Nohrian ones—all they did was rule out the involvement of other countries.

“Gold, yes. Not the kind of coin your common criminal would have. The man or woman behind this would have to be very wealthy. It’s very likely they hailed from nobility.”

Now that was interesting. Garon mentally lowered Bernice a few positions on the list and moved Vesta up. The concubines enjoyed the luxuries and hospitality of court life, but they were by no means paid for being his mistresses. They had the money from their families and that was it; anything else they wanted they had to earn with a proper job, like everyone else. Bernice, having hailed from a poor village, had little to start with, and was very stingy with what she’d earned since.

That wasn’t to say it was _impossible_ for her to spend her coin on an endeavor like this, but it would likely cost everything she had, which would be a risky, almost idiotic, move when she had no guarantee of payoff. Ambitious she may be, but Bernice was not stupid.

“Good job,” he said with an approving nod. “Have you any luck with finding the escaped assassin?”

Basil shook his head. “None, sadly, but it’s one of my top priorities. I have people investigating every avenue and searching every cranny of the underworld. She is our biggest lead. If we can find her, we can make her talk. And once we do, we find the employee.”

“We _will_ find them,” Garon muttered. His fingers tightened around the papers as his mind envisioned the neck of the perpetrator instead. “And then they will face the justice of Nohr.”

* * *

Weeks passed and life went on. Tourneys and hunts and balls resumed, as did politicking. Short of the ongoing investigation and the distinctly empty seat next to Garon’s at his table, it was as though nothing had happened. Hoshido tried and failed to link the criminals’ activities to the king, and tried and failed to stop the raids; Nohr continued to eat.

The concubines redoubled their efforts to win him over—their necklines became plunging, their bosoms heaving, and many of them became unusually clumsy, always dropping handkerchiefs and bending at the waist rather than at the knees to retrieve them. Each was determined that, with his new bachelorhood, they would be the one to get his ring on their finger and the crown on their head.

The worst part was, it was working. His eyes couldn’t help but trail up the long, creamy curves of Vesta’s legs, down the revealing décolletage of Bernice’s robes, across Jeanette’s full lips, and over countless other features of countless other women. He was tempted, sorely tempted. Not out of love—he could never love any of them, not anymore, not after any one might have had a hand in Katerina’s death—but out of lust and a bit of sorrow. Sex was cheaply bought and rewarded great solace.

It also brought great consequences, ones he was intimately familiar with. And he was determined, not broken, and so for once he actually kept his urges in check. Rather, he found comfort from a different source, an unexpected one.

Sometimes he would pass Arete’s room and hear her singing to her daughter, or spot her poring over books about magic, or find her brushing horses in the stables with a soft look on her face, and take a few minutes to join her and chat. He gradually discovered that he genuinely enjoyed her company, and not just because of her beauty, and was soon actively seeking her out. She was intelligent and witty. Her candor was refreshing after the constant double-speak pervading his court, yet not so blunt as to be crass. More than that, she was perhaps the only woman who was not actively trying to seduce him. It was nice.

While he learned a great deal about her likes and dislikes and opinions, the one thing he couldn’t pry out of her was her past. Arete preferred not to speak of that, offering only small tidbits of information here and there before shutting down. And the more he learned about her, the less she made sense. Her well-bred mannerisms, the finely-wrought pendant she’d said was an heirloom from her father, and a past marriage she’d hinted was arranged? It all pointed to her hailing from the upper classes. But she should never have wound up living on the streets if she’d been highborn, and none of Nohr’s noble houses had fallen into poverty recently.

One hot summer’s day, as they sat and watched a tourney, he decided to broach the subject delicately. “Weren’t there are any family members you wanted to invite to the tourney? I would have allowed it.” It was a high honor to be invited to sit with the king’s entourage; the concubines were nailing her with envious and hateful glares from their seats further down.

“Not anymore,” she said simply, and all the weight of the world was in those two words. “It’s just myself and Azura.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, fixing his eyes on the jousting below. Gunter had just finished knocking his opponent off her horse, and was removing his helmet to the cheers of the crowd. Tourneys and arena battles were a great source of entertainment in Nohr, and were also a way to find the cream of the crop. It wasn’t uncommon for winners to become retainers—that was how Jeanette had become his.

“It’s quite alright.” A slight smile crossed her face as she watched the knights of the next round square off, saluting each other with their lances. “My sister hated this sort of thing. She was stubborn; always preferred doing what she wanted than what was expected of her. I was the dutiful one. Still, she always came through when I needed her.”

Another hint as to noble birth. Another puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit the whole picture. “She sounds headstrong.”

Arete chuffed softly. “She was. She was headstrong and selfish and far too clever, but she was still my little sister. You always look out for your siblings. I like to think I did a good job of it after…” Her eyes glistened a bit, but she closed them and shook her head with a sigh. When she opened them again they were so clear Garon almost thought he’d imagined it. “Well, I suppose I’ll never get the chance to ask her now.”

The crowd around them roared at whatever was happening below, but Garon was too distracted by the chance to learn more about Arete and her mysterious past to pay attention. “What was her name?”

“…Mika,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. Then, turning away, she abruptly added, “I don’t wish to speak of this anymore.”

There it was again. The shutdown. “Of course,” he said, knowing better than to argue but disappointed all the same. “My apologies.” He felt unusually chastised for his probing; she had clearly loved her sister, and he’d probably reopened some old wounds.

They turned back just in time to watch one charging knight unseat the other, but Arete gave him a tiny smile and he knew his slight was forgiven.

* * *

Today, Garon was in a mood. His boots clomped noisily against the stone as he stepped down the stairs, eyebrows pinching together as his eyes glared about. Servants scurried out of his way, keeping their heads down, and even the few concubines he encountered knew better than to approach him.

He was searching for his eldest son, and he was not happy.

He passed an open doorway and halted, swiftly turning to see if Xander was inside. What he saw instead temporarily dispelled his foul mood, and his lips pulled upwards against his will.

“Hello, Azura,” he greeted. Arete’s daughter was playing with Josie in the center of the room, their chubby hands moving dolls about and their imaginations bringing them to life. Arete and Josie’s nursemaid were sitting in chairs, the first reading and the second sewing; it seemed they’d decided to leave the nursery today for a change of scenery. He’d heard that his daughter had reached out to Azura, and it gave him hope that maybe at least one of his children would grow up to be kind.

The blue-haired girl dipped her head and mumbled a greeting, shy as ever, while Josie beamed up at him. “Hi, Daddy!”

“Hi, sweetheart,” he cooed, bending to ruffle her black hair as she giggled. “Are you having a good time with Miss Arete’s daughter?”

“Yep! She’s really quiet, but that’s okay ‘cause it means I get to talk more!”

He chuckled, unsurprised; Josie loved the sound of her own voice, so she wouldn’t mind having a silent playmate. She talked enough for two people, maybe even three. He rose and addressed his friend. “Arete, have you seen Xander anywhere?”

Tapping her chin thoughtfully, the singer replied, “I believe we passed him earlier, yes. He looked like he was heading to the nursery.”

Thanking her and leaving the girls to their play, Garon hurried in the direction she’d suggested, climbing yet more sets of stairs. He tried to reclaim his dark mood from earlier, and by the time he finally found his son, crouching and gently playing with a ball with a few of his younger siblings, had managed to at least wipe the smile off his face. The crown prince tensed when his father’s shadow fell over him, but he didn’t look up; Leo and Ulric, who he’d been playing with, toddled over to him, babbling happily. Garon patted their heads softly, but otherwise didn’t react, staring at Xander. He was not here for pleasantries.

“Follow me,” was all the king said before he turned and strode away. He didn’t bother looking over his shoulder; he knew Xander would be behind him.

After a brisk and tense walk, they arrived at Garon’s suite. Xander entered first, head down and shoulders hunched, knowing and dreading the confrontation that was about to happen. Garon closed the door firmly and took a seat, deciding to let his son squirm a bit first.

After watching Xander shift his weight awkwardly for a few minutes, Garon spoke, his voice stern and heavy with disappointment. “Sir Gunter says you’ve been skipping your sword lessons.”

“There’s no point going to them,” Xander mumbled, petulant. “I’m no good at fighting anyway.”

Garon sighed. Xander had been hit hard by Katerina’s death, regressing back into shyness and silence. His moods had been relatively grumpy, but he hadn’t been outright _rebellious_. Xander was the last person he would ever call rebellious. This lesson-skipping had only started recently, according to Gunter. “Do you think avoiding your lessons will cause you to improve?”

“I’d rather spend my time with my brothers and sisters than waste it on something that’s not going to happen.”

Garon couldn’t believe what he was hearing, and despite his attempts to remind himself Xander was still mourning, felt his ire rise. “Waste? Self-improvement is never a _waste,_ nor an impossibility. And even if it were, a king’s duty—”

“I’m tired!” Xander yelled, cutting through the air viciously with a hand. “I’m tired of duty when it doesn’t _do_ anything! I’m tired of my family dying! I don’t want them to die anymore!”

With great control, Garon kept his face from showing just how the outburst startled him. He couldn’t remember the last time his son had _shouted_ at him. Xander’s eyes were glistening; how long had he been holding this in, to snap so suddenly? Compassion and love quickly quenched the fire of anger that had been slowly building in his chest.

“Xander,” he sighed, but his son flinched, face burning red and eyes a bit panicky as he registered how he’d just spoke to his father, the man he loved and feared in equal measures.

“I…I’m sorry, Father. I don’t know what came over—”

“No,” Garon growled, rising from his seat to grasp Xander by the shoulders. “Don’t be sorry for speaking your mind. I’m a king, but I’m your father too. I _want_ to hear what troubles you.”

“You’ll think I’m weak,” he whispered, and Garon shook his head empathically, leading him over to a chair. “Even I need a place to rest, a person to relax around. Let me _help_ you, son.”

So Xander, in stuttering words, laid his feelings bare. How much he missed his mother and siblings, how pointless he sometimes felt learning to fight was when it didn’t save them, how afraid he was of losing more people he loved. It was the most Xander had spoken in his presence since he was five and just becoming aware of the expectations placed on him, and Garon treasured it.

When Xander stopped talking, Garon hugged him.

“I miss her too,” he whispered, “And I’m afraid of losing more children, just like you. I wish I could promise that more death won’t happen, but I can’t.

“There will always be people you can’t protect. You will never be able to protect everyone. And that’s why you must take up the sword, even if you think it’s in vain: to at least _try_ to protect as many as you can. _That_ is why it’s important for you to learn how to fight. That is the duty of a king, and a father, and a sibling.”

He felt his son nod against his shoulder, seemingly drained of words for the moment. Garon was struck with the urge to stroke his curls like he had when Xander was a toddler, but he had the feeling the gesture would only embarrass him further. So he simply tightened his embrace.

They stayed like that for quite a while.

* * *

“We’ve caught the assassin.”

He’d been having tea with Arete when the messenger came, at first an unwelcome intrusion. Then the words registered, and suddenly became the most important things in the world. Garon almost jumped to his feet, then paused, remembering he had company. He gave Arete an apologetic look.

She tilted her head, a slight smile on her face. “It’s okay. I don’t mind finishing this alone, and this is important—not just to you, but to all of Nohr.”

Relieved to have her permission and understanding, even though he didn’t _need_ them, Garon bid her a quick farewell. He followed his man to the dungeons, where the assassin was hanging from the ceiling by her wrists.

According to the report, she’d fled all the way to Mokushu after being paid a king’s ransom for her work. While there the visiting Nohrian ambassador had spotted her, recognized her from the wanted posters Basil had made, and alerted the daimyo. Kotaro’s men had promptly captured her and delivered her to Windmire as a token of good faith; Garon made a mental note to remember their assistance in the future.

She hadn’t come in without a fight. Dark blue and purple bruises mottled the skin of her arms and face, and two of the fingers on her right hand were crooked. Her mouth was stained red, and when she snarled Garon could see the broken teeth behind her lips. He knew he should feel ashamed of himself for relishing her beaten state, but all he could see was her sword jutting out of Katerina’s chest, over and over. This was justice.

He took a moment to check his anger. When he was certain he wouldn’t lash out, he said, in a calm, level tone, “Tell me who hired you. Whatever your employer paid you, I will double it.”

“You think you can buy me off like some pampered noble?” The woman—he vaguely remembered learning her name, but he didn’t particularly care what it was—laughed bitterly. “I may be just a lowborn criminal to you, but I’m not dumb; I know you’ll execute me for what I’ve done. And I have my honor. All my clients are confidential.”

An admirable trait, but frustrating. Garon took a step forward so his face was inches away from hers, his large frame looming intimidatingly. “Who,” he repeated softly, “hired you? Your death will be swift if you give the name.”

“Go to hell,” she spat.

He sighed, wiping the bloody spittle of his cheek with one hand. He’d offered her the carrot, now it was time for the stick. “Fetch the interrogators…excluding Lady Bernice,” he told a guard. The man snapped off a salute and departed.

He returned in short order, several men and women with the dragon-head brooch of an interrogator pinned to their black cloak in tow. “You had need of us, my king?” the head interrogator asked, eyes glittering beneath the hood of his cowl.

“Make her talk,” was all he said, stepping away to let them go to work.

One hour and much screaming later, the assassin broke and gave them a single name.

* * *

Duke Emeric’s estate was easy to storm. Garon had made certain Emeric’s part in Katerina’s death was announced to the public; the men who hadn’t deserted him entirely were fighting listlessly, as if they themselves didn’t really believe in what they were doing. In no time Garon’s soldiers had subdued them, seized the estate, and disarmed the duke of his weapon when he lunged out of a wardrobe to attack Garon. They tied him up, dragged him back to Windmire, and conducted a very short trial wherein they proclaimed his guilt.

Now, the next day, it was time for the execution, and like Katerina’s funeral, many had gathered to watch it. But this time there was no respectful silence, but loud calls of hate, jeers and cries for death, for punishment, for justice. The scaffold had been constructed, the execution block the centerpiece, and the young man was hunched over it, hands tied behind his back, neck pressed to the wood. Garon stood over him, Bolverk in hand, judge, jury, and executioner in one, feeling triumphant.

“Duke Emeric Leyen,” he boomed, and the crowd fell silent, “you have been charged with plotting treason against the crown, attempted murder, murder, and regicide. You have been found guilty of these crimes and proclaimed a traitor of Nohr and an enemy of state. The sentence is death.” He slammed the butt of Bolverk into the platform to punctuate the last word. “If you have any final words, speak them now.”

The former duke sneered up at Garon, strands of brown hair matted with clumps of blood, one eye swollen and black. The soldiers had not been kind when they captured him. “You call yourself a king?” Emeric hissed. “A defender of the people? Ha! You couldn’t even protect my sister and niece from your own castoffs! Do you even remember their names, or are they just more faceless figures you’ve used and tossed aside?!”

“Gertrude and Penelope,” Garon growled, knowing he shouldn’t rise to the bait and not caring, “Their names were Duchess Gertrude Leyen and Princess Penelope Aurelius.” _I remember the name of every woman I bed and every child I sire._

“Well color me surprised,” the traitor spat, “you do remember. But you don’t care. You never cared about my sister or any of your women and children! Otherwise you’d deliver justice for them like you’re delivering justice for your queen!”

He stopped, chest heaving as he struggled to suck in air, having broken a few ribs in the skirmish. The world seemed to hold its breath as it waited for Garon’s response.

Finally, he spoke. “Don’t you know, Emeric?” Garon said softly. “Justice is only for those who get caught.”

He twirled Bolverk in his hands once. Then, to the wild cheers of the crowd, he brought the axe down and cleaved Emeric’s head from his neck.

* * *

“I doubt it’s over,” Arete murmured later that afternoon as they reclined among the chairs in the royal library, open books on their laps. “He had to have had inside help to get his assassins to the secret passage.”

“Mmm.” Garon leaned back, tapping his fingers rhythmically against the pages. His men had searched Emeric’s papers for any mention of an accomplice and found a single letter—a reply from him, finalizing the details. No names were mentioned, or anything that told him _who_ the accomplice was, but it was still evidence that there was one. “But let’s not worry about that now, and just enjoy the victory.”

Emeric had had no children; his lands and titles had gone to a distant cousin and his family. They had sworn utmost fealty to him, paid a sum of gold as an apology for the fault of their kin, and that was that. The easy show the king’s men had made of the battle would dissuade other uprisings, at least for a while. All was well, except for that one matter—but as Garon just said, he preferred to look at the bright side this once.

Surreptitiously, he cast a glance at Arete. The sunshine streaming through the window cast dancing golden light onto the planes of her face, and her lashes seemed impossibly thick as her half-closed eyes gazed down at her book. He’d always known she was striking, but as of late he’d taken to noticing it more and more.

“I have a matter I would like to discuss,” he finally said, closing his book and setting it aside. She raised a brow quizzically.

“Lately, I found that I have felt a…growing attraction to you,” he began. “I did not want to act on it until I had laid the last ghost of Katerina to rest. But the duke’s words, the possibility of an accomplice, the pending threat of Hoshido…”

Garon sighed, running a hand over his face. “There will always be more things for me to deal with, and I may not get another tomorrow. I want to tell you now, while I can, and ask if you would let me court you.”

He finished, and looked to Arete to see her reaction. She was silent and still, her face an iron mask, betraying nothing. When she finally spoke her voice was icy. “Is this your idea of a joke, Your Majesty?”

“I…beg pardon?”

She snapped her book shut, golden eyes glaring into his. “Your reputation more than precedes you, and my heart is not something to be trifled with. I do not desire to be another of your conquests, bedded and tossed aside to claw for your favor like a dog claws for scraps.”

“No, that’s not—” He shook his head. “Arete, I promise you, I don’t view you as just a ‘conquest’. You’ve been a good friend these past few months, a good pillar of emotional support; that’s something few of my previous lovers can claim. I’ve found myself becoming more fascinated by you, and I’m genuinely interested in pursuing a romantic relationship. Not a fling.”

Her eyes bored into his, searching them for any hint of deceit. Whatever she found, or didn’t find, made her relax slightly and the hostility fade away. “You swear this?” she asked, hints of vulnerability behind the words.

“I swear. If you refuse me, let it be because you don’t feel the same, not because you doubt me.”

The blue-haired woman sighed, her initial anger gone completely. “That’s not the problem. I _am_ fond of you as well. You’ve given me something I haven’t had in a while—hope. I simply don’t desire to risk what I’ve gained on something as fleeting as romance.”

Beseechingly, Garon took her hand. “Even if our courtship goes south, I promise it won’t affect your job here. But it’s that possibility that things _will_ work out that I want _._ Will you allow me to court you—properly?”

Seconds ticked by as she mulled that over. “My daughter will always be my first priority,” she finally said, her tone making it clear this was non-negotiable.

“I would expect no less,” he responded, “My children have always come before their mothers, in my heart. And I promise I will treat her as if she were my own.”

Her mouth curled up into the lovely smile he was fast growing fond of. “Very well then,” she whispered, her words ghosting over his lips as she leaned in to kiss him, “Let’s give it a try.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I tried to find medieval dirges, but there’s a shocking lack of them. So I wrote Arete’s song myself. Please don’t ask for the rest of the lyrics, because those four lines are literally all I did, or for the sheet music, because to be frank I know next to nothing about songwriting.
> 
> Xander’s combat instructor is never mentioned, but I thought Gunter was a good fit. He’s already regarded as a fantastic warrior, and he is known to have trained one member of the royal family, Corrin.
> 
> (Also, you can blame Xander himself for this chapter taking a bit longer than usual, it took me a while to get his scene with Garon right)


	4. Chapter 4

As the jester exaggeratedly took a tumble on-stage, Azura laughed and clapped her hands. On her right, Arete let out a soft chuckle; on her left, Garon smiled, less because of what was happening on the stage and more because he was happy to see them happy.

Courting Arete was slow and sweet. Garon wanted to prove his sincerity, so he tried to ensure the time they spent together was time well-enjoyed. Finding activities where she could bring Azura along was a bit more challenging—he shared very little interests with a four-year-old girl, and many of the events he would have attended with Arete lasted so long as to bore her. But Arete loved Azura, and he wanted to show he was willing to try to love her too. And every child loved plays.

He wished he’d been able to take Arete to Cyrkensia—the operas and dances there were masterful—but the opera house was currently undergoing some new renovations. Until they were done, it was closed. Nestrian troupes still travelled around, though, and when he heard of one stopping in Windmire made a reservation for himself, his paramour, and her daughter.

“Well, I’ll admit,” Arete said when the play ended a short while later, as she and Garon began to leave, Azura holding her hand. They stepped out of the undercity onto the streets above, covered in light layers of early snow, turning the usually-ugly landscape into something beautiful. “These have been an enjoyable past few months.”

“That they have.” He watched Azura stick her tongue out to catch snowflakes, adorable in her bundle of heavy clothes. “I’m glad you’re both enjoying them.”

She smirked playfully. “Thanks in no small part to your efforts. I’m surprised you haven’t been bringing your retainers along on our outings, though.”

“I haven’t exactly had a good relationship with them since…” Garon coughed. “Well. Raoul liked Jeanette, and after Josie was born, she became all…” He waved a hand, unable to possibly summarize the events of the past. “The relationship between the three of us fell apart. It’s gotten easier to avoid bringing them with me if I don’t have to.”

“I see. I used to—” Arete cut herself off.

 _I used…what? I used to know what that was like? I used to be a retainer?_ He frowned and glanced at Arete, but the only thing betraying her slip-up was a slight tightening around her mouth. He sighed and squeezed her hand, deciding to let it go. Arete had become less reserved as they courted, but her past was as taboo a subject as ever.

It was probably for the best Jeanette hadn’t come along, anyway. She, like most of Nohr, didn’t regard his relationship with Arete as serious—his reputation working in his favor for once—but she was a jealous harpy. He could rely on her to protect him if trouble came, but he wasn’t certain she’d protect Arete. She and the concubines restricted themselves to a few snide comments here and there—“I hope she doesn’t think she’s special. Every woman in the court’s been in her shoes,” “I wonder when she realizes she’s no better than the rest of us?” “How long do you think she’ll last before he discards her too?”—but it was still painful to hear.

Azura tugged on his hand and he glanced down at her. She was pointing at one of the few open stores on the surface, selling hot drinks, eyes hopeful. “Please?”

“I’ve told you, you can call me Father,” he chuckled. “But of course.”

While at first he’d solely tried to spend time with Azura for Arete’s sake, he found he was genuinely growing fond of the girl. She was so shy, it reminded him of Xander a bit; but different, too. Sweet, and very eager when it came to learning how to sing from her mother. He pitied her a little, for not having a father figure in her life. Perhaps it was arrogant of him to presume, but he would like to at least provide a reliable male figure for her.

From the way she was beaming at him now, he thought he had succeeded.

* * *

Fall faded to winter, and winter began to bow to spring. Slowly, the wounds on Garon’s heart healed.

So one day, when he was ready, he took Arete to the top of Castle Krakenburg, underneath the stars, and asked her to marry him.

Her eyebrow arched, and she looked about. “Starry sky, breathtaking view, flowery speech, on knee; you certainly don’t do things by halves, do you?”

“Not when it comes to you. Is that a no?”

She sighed. “No, it’s not a no. But are you sure, Garon? I’m not exactly…”

“Open?” Her secrecy was frustrating, he’d admit it. He didn’t like feeling as though she didn’t trust him. But one thing he’d learned from his relationship with Katerina was to compromise. Arete entrusted him with her daughter, which alone was major; she would entrust him with her past when she was ready.

“Well, yes. It doesn’t worry you, to put someone with a past you know nothing about on the throne?”

His knee was aching too much to keep kneeling, so he rose and took her hands in his. “Arete, I love you. More than that, I trust you, and I know you’re a good person. You love Azura deeply, and you always try to be polite to the concubines and their children, no matter their behavior. You are capable and smart and amazing. That’s the exact sort of woman I want by my side.”

“I love you too.” Arete went quiet, looking down at their interlocked fingers. “It’s just so funny,” she murmured, almost to herself, “the direction my life has taken me in. I wonder if the gods have a sense of humor?”

“Arete?”

The strategist shook herself. “My apologies. I was merely lost in thought.”

He supposed her shock was understandable. No woman expected to find herself taken off the streets and proposed to by royalty, after all. It was a fairy tale story that didn’t happen in real life.

“Then I’ll ask again—will you marry me? Will you let me love and cherish you for as long as our lives permit? Will you help me guide this great kingdom through darkness, into a bright future?”

Arete smiled, and it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. “I would love nothing more.”

* * *

The investigation had continued in the months after the duke’s execution, but it had been slowly losing steam. So, as he filled out paperwork in his office, Garon wasn’t expecting the sharp, two-beat knock at his door—Basil’s signature knock.

“You may enter,” he called out, placing the papers about catering aside. It was a few weeks after Arete accepted his proposal, and the wedding planning was well underway. He looked up as Basil filtered in, pristine as ever. The investigator saluted smartly before launching into speech, barely able to contain his excitement.

“Fantastic news, Lord Garon! I believe I’ve found someone who can testify about the possible identity of Emeric’s accomplice.”

It took Garon a moment to recognize the man stepping up to Basil’s side—Kilian, the ravenmaster. He was young, having recently inherited the position from his father, and he was fidgeting on the spot, holding his hat in his hands, eyes on the floor. The king glanced back at Basil. “And why didn’t you find him before now?”

“He didn’t speak up before because he was afraid for his life.”

Nodding, Garon returned his gaze to Killian. The poor man was trembling. “I…your Majesty, please, I had nothing to do with it,” he begged.

“Stop.” Immediately, the man shut up, still shaking like a leaf. “Start over and tell me what happened.”

Killian wrung his hat in his hands over and over. “Y-Yes, Your Majesty. Um, a few weeks after Princess Penelope’s death, one of your missuses told me she wanted me to deliver a letter to Lord Emeric. I didn’t think nothing of it, what nobles do is none of my business, so I tied it to a raven and sent it off. The raven came back without a reply, and she never asked me to do send him a message again, so the event just slipped my mind.”

“He probably sent her an answer through a trusted servant, who ran correspondence between them, rather than relying on public means,” Basil interjected, and Garon nodded.

Killian continued, “Couple days after the duke’s execution, that same missus came up to me, all polite and smiling. Like a viper, she was. She handed me a few gold coins—more than I could earn in a few months!—and told me to forget I ever delivered a letter for her. I thought she was afraid of people associating her with him; I didn’t realize she was actually covering her tracks.”

The king leaned forward. “Who was this lady?”

“I’m not all caught-up on nobles’ names, so I can’t say for certain—” He quailed under Garon’s glare. “But, um, I caught some of her features. Black hair, blue eyes, looked a bit like that lady always trailin’ you—a retainer, is that what you call ‘em?”

“Jeanette,” Garon spat, unable to stop himself from pounding a fist against his desk. _Betrayed by someone who swore to protect me—treason of the highest order—hardly unexpected, given this ‘concubine war’, but still—_

Misinterpreting his anger, Killian took a step backward. “Please, please don’t kill me,” he begged, “I didn’t know—I was just the messenger—”

Garon closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, taking several breaths to calm down. “I’m not going to kill you,” he finally sighed, “I’m not unreasonable. You were doing your job, that’s all, and you stepped forward with what you know. Thank you. You may leave.”

The ravenmaster almost fainted on the spot, bowing as deep as he could while thanking him over and over. The guards led him away while Basil turned to Garon.

“So there you have it. A testimony against one of your concubines. Not enough to have her fairly executed, but enough to have her imprisoned and investigated.”

“Especially given she was one of the few with knowledge of the secret passage to my room.” Garon pushed back from his desk, rising to crack his back. “I’ll send out the warrant for her arrest immediately.”

* * *

He’d wanted to have Jeanette arrested quietly, but of course it wasn’t that easy. One of his concubines, Isolde, saw his soldiers marching into her room, and as fast as she could told everyone else. In no time many nobles had gathered in the halls outside her room, the concubines giggling and gossiping to themselves as they watched Jeanette be escorted out and to the dungeons.

If there was one compliment Garon would pay her, it was that she didn’t let them get to her. She’d glared at them all, head held high as though she weren’t only half-dressed, her hair messy and her makeup not on, and being led to imprisonment.

A few days before her trial, Garon went to visit her. She’d had her lockpicking tools taken away from her, but just in case, had a pair of guards standing directly in front of her cell, weapons in hand. Her rank earned her a slightly-more luxurious cell than the one the assassin had been in, so rather than hanging by her wrists she was simply shackled to the wall.

He passed Raoul on his way in. The brunet tilted his head and muttered “my lord,”, but he was visibly downtrodden. Garon patted him on the shoulder and followed the guards to Jeanette’s cell.

His former retainer rose from the bed and curtsied sarcastically when he stood before her, her chains rattling with the motion. “Your Majesty. Forgive the poor accommodations, but a lady makes due with what she must.”

He stopped before the bars. “You’re no lady, Jeanette. You arranged for my wife’s murder.”

“You have no proof of that,” she sniffed.

“Investigator Basil has already found which of Emeric’s servants was carrying the letters between him and his accomplice. I’ve sent people to bring him here, where he will be asked to identify you. If he does…”

Garon let the sentence trail off, and by the brief flicker of fear in Jeanette’s eyes, the message got across. She scoffed and sat back on the bed, crossing her legs. “Well, he won’t. And then you’ll see how much of a farce this entire thing is.”

For a moment Garon stared at her sadly, the anger draining out of him at her haughtiness. He missed their relationship before this all started. She was terrible now, but she’d been his retainer beforehand. She’d been loyal and funny and kind. He’d been able to rely on her, trust her.

Now, he didn’t recognize her anymore.

“Why did you do it, Jeanette?” he sighed, suddenly feeling very tired. “Why did you change who you were? You used to be a good person. You used to be my friend.”

“You saw what happened to the other ‘good’ women and children in court,” Jeanette sneered. “They were among the first to go. The court doesn’t tolerate good people, Lord Garon. It was adapt or die.”

“And now you may die anyway _._ Even if you’re found innocent, this will haunt your reputation forever. And if you aren’t, you’ll miss out on so much—on our own _daughter’s_ growth, Jeanette.”

She was silent, and he pushed forward. “Was it worth it? Was it worth sacrificing every moral you had for flimsy, material gain, just to end up losing it all anyway?”

Jeanette turned away.

He slammed his hands against the bars, rattling them. “Answer me, dammit!”

“What answer do you want me to give?” she snapped, but her voice lacked its usual venom. “A yes isn’t what you want to hear, but you’ll doubt me if I give a no.” She closed her eyes. “Stop taking your anger out on me and leave me be.”

* * *

The trial, held in the throne room, was not long. Emeric’s messenger confirmed that yes, Jeanette was the lady his former lord had carried on correspondence with. Add that to the rest of the suspicious behavior around her—the fact she had knowledge of the secret passage, her quick arrival on the scene, her “inability” to save Queen Katerina—and the outcome was clear.

“Jeanette Du Val,” Garon pronounced, as the trial finished wrapping up, “you have been charged with assistance in the assassination of Queen Katerina. You have additionally been charged with breaking your oath to protect your liege, attempted murder, murder, and regicide. The court of Nohr has found you guilty of these crimes. The sentence is death by beheading. Have you anything to say in your defense?”

Her mouth twisted bitterly—he couldn’t tell if it was supposed to be a smile or a grimace. “No, not really. I can tell when I’ve lost. I’ll only add that I didn’t intend for the assassins to attack you, Lord Garon—that was all Emeric. I only wanted them to attack your wife.”

 _Is that supposed to be worth something_? In her mind, it probably was. Taking a deep breath, Garon continued, “You will be returned to your cell tonight and executed tomorrow mor—”

“Mommy!”

To Garon’s horror, Josie pushed her way through the crowd, eyes runny with tears. Her nursemaid followed on her heels, grabbing the girl and trying to drag her away. “Princess Josephine, you mustn’t—your father is conducting important business—”

“No! Let go! I want Mommy!”

 _What is she doing here?_ Garon glanced about to see one of his older sons, Damian, slip out the room, hiding a smirk—had he let slip word about the trial, just to agitate or hurt his sister? Given how their mothers were at odds, it seemed likely.

Most of the court was tittering at the young girl’s uncouth behavior, but for once, Jeanette wasn’t among them. She hesitated, looking at her daughter as though seeing her for the first time. Her mouth moved, but whatever she was planning to say never came out, for the guards grabbed her and began dragging her to back to her cell. Josie sobbed wildly, reaching for her mother. “Mommy, no! Mommy!”

Wheeling around, she gazed up at Garon desperately, tears pouring out of her eyes. “Daddy, make them stop! Make them give back Mommy!”

“I can’t,” Garon tried to explain helplessly. “Josie, sweetie…”

His daughter let out a devastated wail. “I hate you!”

She tried to run after the guards, but this time Arete stepped forward, almost literally out of nowhere, and caught her around the waist. Lifting the shrieking, flailing girl, his betrothed carried her over to her nursemaid, grunting with effort. “Get her out of here!”

The cries of his six-year-old daughter, screaming for her mother, echoed in Garon’s ears long, long after she’d quite literally been carried out of the room. 

* * *

That evening, Garon ensured Josie was locked inside her room, the windows barred to prevent her seeing from what would occur outside. And at dawn the next day, Jeanette calmly knelt on the chopping block, to a crowd of jeerers for her death. The king swung the axe, and blood splattered the streets of Nohr.

* * *

The wedding was held in summer, a little over a year after Katerina’s death and two months after Jeanette’s execution. Nohrian weddings were normally quick affairs, with only a small amount of luxuries. But a royal wedding was different. It was a grand party, and thanks to the food they’d been procuring from Hoshido, they were able to spoil themselves with the indulgences.

Arete’s dress was black silk and black lace, with a train of crow feathers and a veil around the lower half of her face. Her father’s pendant gleamed brightly against her dress, and the flowers in her bouquet were nightshade and water lilies. She walked down the aisle alone, having no one to give her away.  She was radiant.

They burned her veil and his cufflinks together at the altar, kissed, and were wed. And then it was time for the banquet, held in the square outside the church—the royal couple sat at the head of the table, the nobles below them. Commoners had no seats, but could come and go freely, taking the scraps.

It was customary for people to come up to congratulate the new couple, so it gave Garon time to notice that, while he, Arete and Azura were happy, they were the only ones. Many of the attending lords, ladies and commoners looked a bit uncertain about their new queen. The concubines were fuming, their smiles slightly fixed and their well-wishes ground out from between their teeth. Bernice is particular sounded as though she were sucking on a lemon when she congratulated them.

Xander, too, seemed downtrodden. His son was still very shy, but he’d slowly taken to approaching Garon and talking to him for little bits of time in hopes of overcoming that. But today, he was scowling quietly next to him at the banquet table. The only child who seemed to be in as black a mood was Josie, who was listlessly picking at her food.

“Xander, are you alright?” Garon asked quietly as they ate, leaning over.

“I want you to be happy, Father,” he said, sounding rehearsed. “If this makes you happy, I’m fine with that.”

Garon sighed. “Don’t lie to me, son.”

“I’m not—”

“You’re clearly unhappy with the situation. And that’s fine—I’m not asking you to treat her as a mother. She could never replace yours. But I would at least like you to get along.”

His son was silent. “I’ll try,” he finally said, and then yet another set of nobles approached the table, warily stealing glances at Arete as they wished Garon well.

 _It’s nothing,_ Garon told himself as they departed, _they’re uneasy because Katerina left large shoes to fill. They’ll grow to accept her in time. She’s one of the few good people left in my court._

* * *

But despite his hopes, the court grew colder to Arete, and by extension her daughter.

One evening, he stopped to kiss Azura goodnight, as had become his custom. As he stooped to press his lips to her brow, the little girl looked up at him with wide, sad eyes and asked, “Why doesn’t Josie like me anymore?”

What was he supposed to say to that? Garon fumbled about in his mind for some sort of explanation. After her mother’s execution, Azura had hesitantly tried to comfort Josie, but her friend had slapped her hand away. Josie had started avoiding Azura shortly after that, making thin, snide excuses whenever Azura tried to invite her to play. The rest of the children had also begun staying away from her after the wedding, on the words of their mothers; some were just passive about it like Camilla, but some actively shunned her, leaving whenever she tried to join their group for play. Even Xander couldn’t bring himself to really interact with her, occupied as he was by his renewed efforts to learn the sword.

“She just misses her mother, darling,” was the best he could come up with. “She still likes you, she’s just too sad to play right now.”

It was technically true. He’d entrusted Josie to Raoul—without Jeanette, she was vulnerable to the machinations of the rest of the concubines. And as much as he wanted to keep her with him to best protect her, it was just impractical. He and his retainer may not have the best of relationships right now, but Raoul had cared for Jeanette; Garon trusted him to look after her daughter. The butler told him that Josie often cried for her mother at night.

“She’ll come play with me again?”

“I’m sure she will.”

Then he left, unable to keep looking her in the eyes as he lied, silently cursing himself.

When he entered his bedroom, Arete was getting ready for bed, wiping off her makeup with a cloth. She jumped as he rammed a fist into the wall, the sound of bone connecting with stone ringing throughout the room. Garon was so furious and frustrated he didn’t even notice the pain shooting down his arm.

“I hate this,” he growled. “I hate how powerless I am in my own castle. I hate…”

His wife took his outburst in stride, expression barely changing as she reached for his hand with her two smaller ones. She frowned and clucked her tongue. “Now you’ve done it. You’ve broken two of your knuckles.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he mumbled, dropping onto the bed as Arete moved to fetch a staff.

“It matters to me. Now sit still while I patch you up.”

They sat in silence for a while, as the staff cast a glowing light over his hands and his bones knit back together. Arete put the staff down, but didn’t let go of his hand, her fingers rubbing circles over the back of it. “What happened, Garon?”

He sighed. “Azura told me that Josie’s stopped playing with her.”

Arete’s fingers stilled briefly. “Yes, I know. She told me too. Losing her mother like that can’t have been easy for the girl.”

“She blames me for not stopping it.” _And you, because you stopped her from chasing after her mother, and Azura because she’s your daughter._ It was unfair and childish, but then she was still just a child.

“You’re her father. She’ll come around.”

“When? It’s been months.”

Arete didn’t have an answer for that, so he changed the subject. “I’ve noticed you don’t seem to have a lot of people to talk to, yourself.” Even the retainers he’d found for her kept their distance.

She turned away dismissively. “I’m not a particularly social person. I’m happy so long as I have my music, my books, and my magic. And you and Azura, of course.”

“If they say anything cruel—”

“They haven’t.” He studied her face and tone closely, but if she was lying, he could find no sign of it. Nevertheless, it was clear from her body language that the subject was closed. So instead he put an arm around her, and as they cuddled she sang softly, an old, familiar Nohrian folk song that spoke of happier times, of bountiful harvests and plentiful rain. Garon leaned back and closed his eyes, letting the lovely lilt of her voice carry him away to those good times.

* * *

He soon learned she was lying, though. A few days later, as he was striding down the hall, intending to get in some training before dinner, he caught some snippets of conversation between a butler and a young nobleman.

“…appearance was quite _fortuitous,_ don’t you agree?”

“Oh, completely. A commoner appears from nowhere, with a daughter despite being unwed I might add, so soon after the death of our beloved queen? A commoner who proceeds to win the heart of our king? No mere coincidence, that.”

“How did she do it, I wonder? Some sort of enchantment or spell?”

“Well, you didn’t hear this from me, but I spoke with Lady Vesta a few days ago, and she said—”

They fell silent when Garon’s shadow fell over them, faces paling.

“Go on,” he said pleasantly, dangerously. “What did Lady Vesta say?”

“That…that Her Majesty was quite adept at magic, ‘tis all,” the nobleman squeaked. “She sung quite a bit of praise about her…her skill.”

“I’m sure she did,” he growled. He spun on his heel and stormed away. Forget his training; he had a concubine to speak to.

He found Vesta in the larder, bringing food out in preparation for the upcoming meal. She smiled and curtsied—somewhat awkwardly, with the box in her arms—when she saw him. “Lord Garon,” the maid purred. “How may I assist you this lovely day?”

“You can start by putting an end to the rumors you’re spreading about my wife.”

Her eyes widened, faux innocent. “Rumors? I merely speculate, my lord; it’s not my fault if some people take those speculations as fact.”

“You know very well it’s not mere _speculation_ you spread, but slander against the rightful queen of Nohr. It needs to stop.”

“Is speaking a crime, now? Do you intend to cut out the tongues of everyone who has repeated these words? If so, you will have to get half the court in line, for I am not the only one speculating, my lord.”

And unfortunately, she was right. Rumor and hearsay had always been part of court life, and you couldn’t just go around silencing everyone who said something you disliked without quickly becoming unpopular. Reacting to this would do nothing except cement the idea that Arete had done something to bewitch him, in people’s minds.

His and Arete’s first major fight was over that, when he confronted her later that evening. In hindsight jumping on her about it as soon as she walked through the door was dumb, he could admit that, but he was agitated and angry and not thinking straight.

“Why did you lie to me?”

She stopped short. “Lie? Garon, I haven’t—”

“You told me the other women in court weren’t bullying you. So why did I have to learn from _Vesta_ that that’s not true?”

“Oh my gods,” she muttered, shaking her head. “That’s it? Really? It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing! What they’re saying is—”

“I can handle it!” she snapped, spinning around, “And you have more important matters on your mind, so—”

“So now you think you’re not important to me? Is that it?”

“I didn’t say that!”

Needless to say, the shouting lasted for quite a while. It didn’t wind down until, frustrated, Arete actually screamed, “I can’t just go running to you as soon as a few mean words come my way! What do you think the court would say to that? They’d call me weak, and Nohr doesn’t tolerate weakness! I have to prove to them that I’m an able queen!”

It shocked him, to say the least. He slumped, resting a hand against the dresser for support, exhausted and drained and plain-out _sore_ from the fighting. “How will you do that?”

She was quiet. “I don’t know,” she finally said, sounding as tired as he. “But I’ll work something out.”

* * *

Things remained awkward for a few days, but they resolved matters. Garon reluctantly promised to let her handle the slander herself, and she promised to rely on him for emotional support when she needed it.

Autumn creeped by, and in its final days, Garon woke one morning to find a letter from Izumo had arrived in the night. It was resting on his desk in all its gross excessiveness, fancy gold calligraphy and colorful stationery winking at him cheerfully. Not how he wanted to start his morning—he had little patience for Izumo’s foppishness—but he may as well just get it out of the way now, so grudgingly he opened it up and read it aloud.

 _“To the esteemed King Garon of Nohr…you, your lovely new bride, and whomever you see fit to bring are cordially invited to Izumo, the great land of medicine and festivity, for a banquet celebrating love and peace…_ Hiromi’s usual verbosity, in short,” he sighed, turning to set the letter aside.

Then his eyes caught sight of a particular phrase that had his grip on the paper tightening dangerously, until it was almost ripped. _“The esteemed King Sumeragi of Hoshido and his lovely new bride, as well as whomever else they see fit to bring, have also been invited. As you well know, Izumo has a strict non-violence policy—even enemies may be friends within its borders…”_

“Garon?” Arete’s curious, sleepy voice called him out of his rage. Exhaling, his fingers loosened, and the crumpled piece of paper drifted slowly to the ground. His wife sat up in their bed, rubbing her eyes and yawning. Her eyes drifted down to the letter, and she stooped to fetch it, running her fingers over the loopy writing. Her eyebrows climbed up her face the further she got, and she began looking more awake.

Finally, she put the letter down, meeting Garon’s fuming face calmly. “You have to admire Duchess Hiromi. It takes a certain amount of…gravitas, to invite two enemy nations to the same banquet.”

“An invitation implies I can refuse it,” he grumbled. Izumo was Nohr’s sole source of medicinal imports; turning down an invitation ran the risk of losing those imports, or having the prices raised.

“It’s not all bad. It’ll be nice to get away from the court for a while,” Arete commented. “And it’s free food.”

An unintentional snort slipped out of him. “Fair point. The children could probably use a vacation, too—Josie especially.” And he thought he could, at least, trust the concubines to know better than to start something in neutral territory.

Still, Izumo was far, almost as far as Hoshido, and the date for the banquet was close. Even by wyvern it would take more than a week to arrive. They’d need to make preparations immediately and set out swiftly if they wanted to arrive in time.

He sighed, turning to his wardrobe to get dressed for the day. “I’ll tell the stablemasters to start preparing the wyverns for the flight.”

And then it would be time to see Sumeragi in the flesh, for the first time since this whole mess began.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I slightly underestimated the length of this story. Instead of being 5 chapters and an epilogue, as I’d thought, it’ll be six and an epilogue—I split this one in half. Izumo took more time than I was expecting, and I didn’t want the chapter to feel too heavy. So two more updates to go.
> 
> Trigger warning: the latter half of this chapter contains an instance of bullying which might hit a little too close to home for anyone who’s actually been bullied in real life.

 

The vantage position offered by the wyverns afforded Garon a splendid view of Izumo, spread out beneath him, as they flew over. The medicinal country was beautiful in this stage of fall-winter, the trees full of red-and-gold leaves and the ground covered in white snowflowers. As they approached the capital, the wide fields made way for simple Hoshidan-style buildings, with a large and luxurious palace overlooking it all.

They landed in the courtyard of the palace and dismounted the wyverns. After delivering specific instructions to the stable boys about how to keep the animals warm—Izumo’s winters weren’t as freezing as Nohr’s, but cold-blooded was cold-blooded—Garon grudgingly turned to face the front of the Izumite castle. He couldn’t see Hiromi yet, but the Hoshidans had arrived before them, unsurprisingly, and were waiting at the bottom of the steps with unreadable expressions.

Sumeragi looked well, Garon noted sourly. He and his whole entourage had the glow that came with full bellies and safety, the soft glow Nohrians rarely enjoyed. He’d brought three of his children—the eldest two and the bastard, clinging to his mother’s kimono with a curious look on his face. The new queen was a delicate-looking woman with raven hair and wane eyes, adorned in white. The sort who would never last a day on a battlefield. She caught her husband’s arm when he made to step forward, whispering something quickly in his ear before letting him greet Garon.

They stood before each other, eyeing the other man with the sort of enmity that could only be born of politics and racism. “King Garon,” Sumeragi began, voice overly polite. “A pleasure to see you.”

“King Sumeragi,” he returned. It was petty and childish, and it was too soon for this, but he couldn’t stop his next, bitter words from leaving his mouth. “I see you’re still profiting from my people starving in the streets.”

The Hoshidan king’s eyes swept once over his concubines, judgmental. “And I see you’re still attending to your personal desires, rather than to your people.”

Fury swelled in him. Forgetting himself and where he was, Garon made to grab Bolverk, and it was only the timely intervention of the eccentric Duchess Hiromi that stopped him.

And then it was time for pleasantries—Hiromi, being Hiromi, started fawning over Sumeragi’s coat and his own cape. One hand rose, touching the fabric as she praised the mink fur, and he was barely able to answer over the lump in his throat, “it was a gift from my late wife”. He may have moved on from Katerina’s death, but that didn’t mean he would ever forget her.

At Hiromi’s curiosity about his new wife, Garon waved Arete forward, presenting her proudly, daring Sumeragi to say anything about his remarriage when he, if the rumors were correct, had barely waited the appropriate mourning period. Now that she was afforded a clearer view of the Hoshidans, his wife’s face warped in surprise. Sumeragi’s expression was unreadable, while the new Hoshidan queen had stiffened, staring down at Arete with blatant shock on her face. Garon didn’t have time to wonder why as Sumeragi brought her down the steps, introducing her as Mikoto. And that was the final introduction that needed to be made.

It was with relief all-around that the formalities ended, and Garon followed a servant to the quarters he’d be staying at. Arete trailed him, Azura’s hand clutched tightly in it, looking a bit out-of-sorts and overwhelmed.

They were shown inside and informed the meal would be ready in a few hours, and then the servant left. Garon sighed, unclasping his cape and hanging it carefully on the back of a chair. The quarters were Nohrian-style—the Izumites saw so much traffic from both major countries, they’d refurbished a wing of the castle entirely to be more convenient for them—and much lighter than Castle Krakenburg’s. Arete wandered over to their bed, sitting on it with an almost dazed look on her face.

“Something seems to be bothering you,” he said conversationally as he went about pulling his boots off.

“It’s fine,” Arete said, distracted. She rose suddenly. “My legs are still a bit cramped after sitting on that wyvern for so long—I think I’ll take Azura for a walk and go stretch them.”

A bit off-put by her shifting attitude, Garon asked, “Do you want me to come with you?”

“Oh, no, you relax—you’ve earned it. We’ll be back soon,” she promised, and, pulling Azura from where she’d been peering out the windows, practically fled.

“Soon” turned out to be an exaggeration; Garon did not see hide nor hair of them for two hours, until the royals were settling down at the great hall for the first dinner. He was just about to send someone to find her, concerned, when she came rushing in through a side door, out of breath. Queen Mikoto followed behind at a somewhat slower pace, both their children in tow.

“Where were you?” he asked, frowning at Arete as she took the seat next to him, still breathless. Hiromi’s ability for diplomatic hospitality was admirable—she’d set up the hall with low tables and cushions, to give some level of comfort to both nationalities. Chopsticks, forks and knives were set out at every place, and the food looked to be a mix of Hoshidan and Nohrian.

Before his wife could respond, Queen Mikoto stepped in smoothly. “A few hours ago, Kamui and I were exploring the gardens when we ran into the queen and her daughter. Kamui immediately dragged Princess Azura off to play games, and we couldn’t bear to ruin their fun, so we agreed to just let them be. As we waited, we got to talking, and, well, it seems we lost track of the time.” She smiled.

Garon glanced at Arete, who nodded in confirmation of the story. “I see.” It seemed odd that this Hoshidan was willing to allow her son to sully himself with Nohrian friendship, but perhaps she was simply being diplomatic.

* * *

He’d forgotten how crafty Hiromi was. She kept them constantly busy throughout the week—when they weren’t feasting, she was taking the royal families on tours around the city, hosting grand hunts, or doing other fun activities, in the hopes the bonding would bring them together again. It was an admirable effort, but relations were still—and, Garon privately suspected, always would be—tempestuous. His children barely got along with each other, much less those of a nations they’d been raised to believe was evil. Fortunately they were still so young their misbehavior could be waved off as simply childishness, but it reflected the tense attitude among the adults well.

Currently, they were outside in the palace grounds, watching what Hiromi swore was “the finest fireworks display in all of Izumo!” She wasn’t lying; the explosions of purple, blue, red, gold, and other colors were a spectacular sight—and Garon did find some amusement in how the loud noises made the Hoshidan ninjas, with their keener ears, flinch.

Still, pleasant as it was, there were still things weighing on his mind. Garon glanced to his left with a scowl, to where Azura was clapping her hands next to Prince Kamui and Queen Mikoto. He’d thought the initial playdate had been a one-time thing, a token of pity from a high-and-mighty queen who saw the Nohrians as a charity case. But over the past four days, it had become recurring for her and her son to spend time with his wife and step-daughter. It spoke volumes about the level of trust Arete had for Queen Mikoto to let Azura sit with her and her son, even if only for a few hours, without her.

He couldn’t help having doubts, though. “She shouldn’t be getting mixed up with their kind,” he grumbled to his wife. “Hoshidans are nothing but troublemakers and oath-breakers. She’s just going to get hurt.”

“You should give them a chance,” Arete said calmly. She had turned her attention away from the show to fiddle with a round stone in her hands. “His mother’s not that bad, and he’s not even five—what evil could he be plotting? Besides, she’s been lonely ever since that mess with Josie and Jeanette. It’s good she made a friend.”

“I suppose,” Garon relented. Azura did look a lot happier than she had in the past few months. He threw a curious look at the rock his wife held; she’d been tinkering it almost ever since they’d arrived in Izumo. “What’s that you have there?”

She started, made a motion like she was going to put it away; hesitated, then held it out for his inspection. “I was trying out a new spell,” she stammered, “Just a personal side-project.”

Garon frowned down at the stone. There were some scores that, if he squinted and turned his head, appeared to form some sort of design, but other than that it was just a stone. “No offense, but it doesn’t look like much.”

“Well like I said, I’m _trying_ out a spell.” She smiled wryly. “It hasn’t had much success yet.”

“If anyone could get the hang of it, it’s you,” he said sincerely.

“Flatterer.” Arete took the stone back and pocketed it, then dropped her head against his shoulder. For a time they sat, watching the show, Garon enjoying the ocean scent of his wife’s perfume. It had been too long since they’d had a moment for just peace.

“Why aren’t you willing to negotiate with King Sumeragi?” Arete asked after a while. Garon pretended to be absorbed in the spectacle of the sky, stalling for time.

“It’s not that I’m _not_ ,” he finally sighed, when it became clear he couldn’t put this off any longer, “I just don’t think it’s going to work.”

“So there’s no point in even trying?” Her voice was sharp with disapproval.

“I did, once before. It didn’t get me anything. Sumeragi’s just too stubborn.”

“Queen Mikoto, at least, is reasonable. She wants peace as much as we do, and she’s been trying to get her husband to agree to negotiations too. I’m sure King Sumeragi would listen if you tried again.”

He shook his head and sighed, pressing a kiss to the top of Arete’s head. “Let’s not argue and just enjoy the fireworks. Please.”

“…alright,” she relented. “But this isn’t over. If I don’t bring this up again, you know the duchess will.”

* * *

Arete was correct; the next-to-last day, Hiromi finally decided subtlety wasn’t working anymore, and decided to intervene personally.

“…so won’t you at least _try_ to resolve things? It’s so sad when friends fight,” she finished with a pout. She’d called the two of them to a parlor for drinks—tea for Sumeragi, coffee for Garon. In hindsight, Garon should have known something was up by her asking for just them, and not including their wives, but he was mentally taxed. He hadn’t paid the mostly empty room much heed until Hiromi had arrived and announced that it was time to start, then launched immediately into her speech about how the gods themselves wanted Hoshido and Nohr to get along.

“We aren’t friends,” he and Sumeragi responded at the same time. Immediately they threw glares at each other, as if asking _how dare you_ _speak in unison as I_. It was a stupid reaction that brought Garon back to his days as a young boy, rough-housing with the other nobles’ sons. _Gods, we_ are _being immature about this._

“Your wives seem to be becoming friends,” the duchess pointed out. “And at least two of your children. So it’s not impossible for Hoshido and Nohr to get along.”

“It will always be impossible for us to get along with those taking advantage of us,” Garon growled. Sumeragi slammed his hands on the table.

“Just as it’s impossible for _us_ to get along with those _raiding_ us! Hoshido and Nohr have barely had anything more than civil politeness—”

“So how long will you continue to drag an age-old feud out?” Hiromi’s voice was stern now, all traces of flippancy gone. “Months? Years? Will you let your loved ones suffer because of your unwillingness to at least _try_ to work together? Your issues are not so insurmountable as to cause a war, yet a war they will cause if you can’t overcome them. Is that what you want?”

He thought of Arete, dark bags under her eyes from trying to help run a kingdom that hated her. Of Xander, only now getting the hang of fighting with a blade. Of Camilla and Damian and Josie and Leo and Azura and all his other children, those just barely learning to fight and those not even old enough to start. He thought of things getting worse, of them

“No,” he finally said, after a long pause. “No, I don’t. If Hoshido is willing to at least _entertain_ listening to our problems with the taxes, I would not be adverse to discussion.”

Sumeragi scowled at him, but slowly nodded. “I would be…willing to re-open negotiations as well.”

Like a flipped switch, Hiromi clapped her hands together, delighted. “Wonderful, wonderful! Oh, don’t you just love happy endings? I’m so pleased my little get-together brought you _back_ together! This calls for a celebration!”

 _Aren’t we already celebrating_? But if Hiromi wanted to stuff them with more food one last time before they left, he certainly wouldn’t stop her.

* * *

The day of the departure came, and was uneventful except for one thing. While Garon and the concubines were saddling up the wyverns to leave, he noticed Arete speaking with Queen Mikoto in hurried whispers. The pair of them had certainly become fast friends. As he watched she clasped the queen’s hands in her own, said something in a low voice, then turned away. She returned to his side, taking his offered hand as assistance to mount her wyvern, Azura settled in front of her.

“What was that about?” he asked as Azura waved a sad farewell to her short-lived friend, Prince Kamui returning it from his position on his mother’s pegasus.

“Just saying goodbye.” Arete’s face was closed off, and Garon sighed, wishing he wasn’t so used to her secrecy.

His eyes briefly met Sumeragi’s across the court, and after a brief pause the Hoshidan king gave him a slight nod. Garon slowly returned it; their mutual agreement to try and reach a compromise was new and fragile. But for the sake of his wife, his children, and his country, he would do his utmost best to ensure it could be kept.

* * *

The days after the return from Izumo trickled by slowly and uneventfully. It was as if a little bit of that peaceful atmosphere had wedged itself in the hearts of everyone who had been on the trip, even the concubines; the court seemed almost slowed and less vitriolic than usual. But like all good things, it had to come for an end.

Garon was in the middle of a meeting with a delegation from Mokushu when a servant came in and informed him there had been a bit of a scuffle with his children on the third floor. Nothing serious, no one was dead or injured, but Garon had made it a point to have all incidents reported to him, no matter how big or small. He was about to dismiss this one as just another scuffle when the servant mentioned Azura had been involved, and that Arete was asking for him; it took all of Garon’s diplomatic clout to get the ambassador to agree to finishing the meeting later.

“It’s alright,” she assured as Garon made to exit, “I have children of my own, and gods know I would want to check on them instantly if they got in trouble.”

He rushed as quickly as he could to his and Arete’s room, dread building in him. Things had been building up for a confrontation for months now, and the tension between his other children and Azura had finally snapped. Only the Dusk Dragon knew the consequences, and he prayed they were nothing serious. He threw the door to his room open.

“What happened?” he gasped, taking the scene in. Azura was curled up on Arete’s lap, sobbing into her shoulder. His wife’s face was stoically furious as she patted her daughter’s shoulder, murmuring soft nonsenses of comfort. For a moment he couldn’t see what was wrong—then Azura shifted her head, and he realized her hair, which had once poured down her back, was cut choppily short, barely brushing her ears.

“A bunch of the older kids got it into their heads it’d be _fun_ to cut her hair,” Arete answered, her voice tight with barely-restrained fury. “They chased her around with a pair of scissors until they caught her, then forcibly sheared it all off."

“Dusk,” he swore quietly, crossing to their side. He took Arete in his arms, feeling her tremble against his chest with rage. One large hand moved to cover Azura’s tiny ones.

“That’s not even the worst part. Josie was with them.”

At the name of her former friend, Azura’s sobs grew louder and more heart-broken. Garon’s own heart melted for his step-daughter. “Oh, Azura…”

“Why?” she hiccupped, peering up at them, eyes teary and nose runny, “Why was Josie with them? Why are they always being mean to me? Wh-what did I do wrong?”

“It’s not you, darling…it’s…” But he stopped, unable to even figure out where to begin explaining the machinations of his court’s politics to her young mind. Arete stared down at her daughter, a look of determination crossing her face.

“Garon, can you take her a moment?”

He blinked and nodded, but Azura shook her head, clinging to Arete and sobbing even harder. “Mom, no… Mom…”

“It’s okay, darling, I’ll be right back,” Arete whispered to her daughter. Gently disentangling her from her dress, she passed the young girl to Garon, rising. He patted Azura’s back as he watched Arete make her way to her dresser, confused as to her intent.

“Arete…?”

She rummaged around through the drawers a moment before returning, a pair of scissors in hand. Grabbing hold of her silky blue hair in one fist, she cleanly cut through it, letting the rest sway back into place as a short bob. Azura stopped her sniffling and gazed at her mother wide-eyed, and Garon could understand why—for as long as he’d known her, Arete had always kept her hair waist-length. Seeing her with short hair was surreal.

“See?” Arete murmured, crouching down to be eye-level with her daughter. “Now we match. Isn’t that fun, sweetheart?”

Azura seemed at a loss for words, so Garon stepped in. “Why don’t I trim your hair, make it even like Mom’s?” he murmured softly, running his fingers through the choppy length. “It’ll be so nice and cute, the other kids will be jealous. Would you like that?”

“…okay,” she agreed in a small voice, and he stroked her hair soothingly, wishing there was more he could do.

* * *

After that horrid incident, he spoke to Raoul about getting Josie to stop hanging out with Azura’s tormentors, but his butler protested that Josie barely listened to him or to anyone anymore. All they could do was hope her bout of anger would pass. Regardless, a week had scarcely gone by before the next piece of trouble arrived.

Shortly after their return from Izumo, Garon had written the first letter for negotiations with Hoshido, reiterating his problems with the taxes and asking once again that they be lowered. Just recently he’d received the first reply from Sumeragi, requesting that Nohr hunt down the criminals raiding them beforehand. Then, the king had promised, they would negotiate, and may the gods curse his family name for a thousand generations if he broke this promise.

Now he found himself at a bit of a conundrum. Nohr had stored enough food from the raids to last them a while, especially given that winter was approaching its end, but cancelling the raids meant putting his full faith in their ability to reach a compromise—as well as Sumeragi keeping his word. He knew little of Hoshidan oaths, but a consultation with his advisors had informed him Sumeragi’s oath was one of the most sacred, unbreakable ones they had. He would keep it, they assured. But Garon still worried—he always worried.

It was as he was pondering this that he encountered Bernice, on her way back from her interrogation of a prisoner.

“Your Majesty,” she greeted, curtsying low enough to afford him a generous view of her cleavage. “It’s always a pleasure and an inspiration to see you working so hard.”

“I’m glad I can inspire you to more fruitful endeavors than seduction of a married man.”

He could read the words flashing in her eyes: _That didn’t stop you before_. But she didn’t vocalize them, and simply smiled in false modesty. “We must all do our part. Especially given your wife’s suspicious behavior of late…” Bernice sighed extravagantly.

Despite himself, Garon found his attention caught by her last sentence. “What are you on about now?”

“Oh? You didn’t know?” Clearly pleased by the fact she held information he wanted, Bernice twined a piece of lavender hair around her finger. “While we all work _so_ hard to protect our country, it seems our _dear queen_ does not.”

“Don’t lie to me, Bernice,” Garon growled, glaring and taking a step forward. “Arete is not the type of woman to slack on her duties—and even if she were, I’d know if things weren’t getting done.”

“Oh yes, she does her paperwork and entertains nobles and all that, but I didn’t mean the physical part. I meant the _spirit_ of things.” Eyelashes fluttering, Bernice cooed, “You see, the servants have spotted her taking Princess Azura out of the castle for a few hours a time, after she finishes her duties for the day. They disappear down to the lake in the back and don’t return. No one seems to be able to trail them or find them after.

“And that’s not even all. Some say that the queen sometimes sneaks off by herself as the sun sets. And I’ve also heard that she’s been seen hunched over some stave or object or something, crafting and casting in secret. That doesn’t seem the least bit suspicious to you?”

“Enough,” he growled, but she didn’t listen.

“I mean, we all saw her getting along so well with the Hoshidans in Izumo—”

“Enough!” Garon roared, slamming a hand choppily through the air, and the sorceress took a faltering step back. “I won’t listen to your poisonous words against the woman I love!”

“I’ll hold my tongue around you, if you so order,” Bernice said, after taking a moment to collect herself. “But the court’s all talking about it. Good day, your Majesty.”

Garon watched her sashay off. Once the hallway was empty, he leaned against the wall and pressed two fingers to his brow, eyes closing.

“Nonsense and slander,” he mumbled. “It’s always nonsense and slander with this court.”

But despite himself, a little thorn of doubt wedged itself in his heart.

* * *

It was the second month of the new year, and Garon knew it was time he get a second retainer to replace Jeanette. In truth he should have searched for one long ago; part of the reason it had taken this long was because the tournaments did need a bit of time to put together, but part of it was simply because he was loathe to entrust his safety, and by extension Arete’s, to a stranger after being betrayed by an old friend.

His requirements were simple. No women—he was beyond tired of giving them chances to claw positions in his court. Other than that, anyone was welcome.

The tournament took several days, and was now wrapping up below him. It had been a popular, fierce event, as always, and the victor was a ferocious warrior. But the winner wasn’t the one who had caught his eye; rather, the man in third place. Looking to be in his late teens, with greasy black hair and a lanky frame, he’d proved to be cunning and quick, defeating his opponents with tactics rather than sheer power. What interested Garon the most, though, was his tome—it was a type of dark magic he’d never seen before, unique and powerful. And that was why he picked the mage to interview after.

“Your Majesty,” the dark mage said, bowing deeply; they were in the building set aside for the competitors to rest at while waiting their turn to fight. It was normally a bit small and cramped, but had been cleared out so they could speak privately. “It honors me incredibly that you would come speak to me, out of everyone here.”

“You fought well in the tournament, despite your loss. What is your name?”

“Iago, your Majesty,” the other man said, rising from his bow with a slight smile on his lips.

“A pleasure. Tell me, Iago, how is it you came by such a unique and powerful tome at such a young age?”

“Well, I owe it all to my deity. Tell me…have you heard of Anankos?”


	6. Chapter 6

 

It had been so long since there had been an actual murder—a full year—that Garon had actually _forgotten_ what the pain of it felt like. Pain was supposed to dull with time, and yet, the crushing blow to his chest, the swooping in his gut as he heard the news, was as sharp and striking as ever. Moreso, perhaps, since he’d grown lax in the peace.

He’d been in court with Arete when one of his soldiers came and reported that one of his children had been found dead. Forgetting where he was, only able to focus on those horrible words, Garon had immediately gotten to his feet and rushed after him, Arete on his heels. The nobles, gossipy vultures they were, had followed them, darting through the halls and up the stairs and through the door leading to the bedroom. And there he saw his daughter, slumped against the wall with a terrified expression on her face and red slowly pooling around her.

Garon couldn’t even offer himself the token comfort of thinking Josie’s death had been fast and painless, because it clearly hadn’t been. His little girl had been stabbed multiple times, over and over again, before the assailant had buried a knife in her eye, piercing her brain and dealing the killing blow. It would have been done last—she would have been in so much pain…

“Call Basil and tell him to start the investigation,” he said with a heavy heart, rising and turning away from the small, mutilated body. Next to him, Arete rested a hand on his arm, looking ill herself. Her attempt at comfort was appreciated but futile; the sour taste of bile was in his throat, and he had to swallow it down. The blood squelched beneath his boots as he slowly made his way to the door, where a crowd of onlookers had gathered.

“What need is there for that?” someone called.

Vesta pushed her way through the murmuring crowd into the room, lifting her skirts in a curtsy when she stood before him. Rising, she repeated in a loud voice, “What need have we for an investigation when we all know who the perpetrator is?”

“Do tell,” Garon said flatly, “because making an accusation like that requires some very definitive evidence.”

“The evidence is right before us. Look at the state of her body.” Vesta gestured at it, false sorrow dripping off her words. “Who could _brutalize_ such a young child so thoroughly, but someone who held a grudge against them?” Her eyes lifted, staring at a point beyond Garon’s shoulder. He turned to see she was staring at Arete, blatantly disrespectful. “And whose daughter was the one being bullied by Princess Josephine?”

Two blotchy spots of color appeared high on Arete’s cheeks. Her eyes flashed and her knuckles went white at her side, but when she spoke her voice was carefully controlled. “How _dare_ you insinuate I would do this to a seven-year-old child? Josephine and Azura were quarrelling, yes, but unlike some, that’s not enough cause for me to murder a young girl.”

The maid scoffed, flipping her braid over her shoulder. “So you say, but we’re all very aware of the front you put up. Why—”

“Be silent!” Garon thundered, pounding a fist into his palm. “Vesta, think carefully on who you are accusing. You accuse Queen Arete Rheos of Nohr,” she’d asked to keep her last name when they’d wed, which he’d agreed to, but which certainly hadn’t won her any public favor, “of murder and treason on nothing more than heresy and suspicion. And while I know you enjoy such things, they have no place in the courtroom of Nohr. Do you actually have tangible evidence to back up your words?”

Vesta glared, and he glared right back. Then she dropped her gaze and curtsied again, sickly sweet. “…no, Your Majesty, I do not. My...apologies. I withdraw my accusation.”

“Good. Remember that someone may have attempted to frame her for this before you speak in such a manner again.” He waved a hand to the crowd, cowing them all with his gaze. “Leave, all of you. Court is adjourned for today.”

They did, and it was only when he was alone in the room with Arete and his precious daughter’s body did Garon collapse into a chair and bury his head in his hands.

* * *

The investigation, of course, turned up no candidates for Josie’s murder, and was quietly closed. A funeral was held, and then life moved on. Garon personally didn’t believe Arete could do such a thing—he _refused_ to believe it—but Vesta’s words, true or not, were the death blow to her reputation. They spread like wildfire, and now his wife couldn’t even step into town without people booing. Some outright threw rotten vegetables at her. They were arrested, of course, assaulting royalty was a crime, but she isn’t _really_ royalty, they yelled as the guards dragged them away, she’s nothing but an imposter, a thief, a murderer! Death to Queen Arete!

Arete refused to crumple in the face of this. His brave wife would show up at court when needed, attended to her duties, and still went into down, keeping a stiff upper lip. But she was withdrawn, even more distant than usual—Garon almost only ever saw her early in the morning, as they woke, or late at night, as they prepared for bed, anymore.

Raoul was crushed by Josie’s death, and even moreso by the fact he was one of the suspects for her murder. He had an alibi and was cleared, but the scandal of it and his self-loathing for his failure to protect Jeanette’s daughter left his shoulders bent. Garon gave him leave of absence from his duties to recover.

Between Raoul being too guilt-ridden and broken to speak to and Arete’s scarce availability, Garon found himself confiding any troubles he had to his only other retainer, Iago. The young man proved to be a good listener, and was willing to offer his advice. Garon didn’t always agree with it, but he appreciated having an ear nonetheless.

“There’s a simple solution to it all, my lord,” the raven-haired man said some weeks later, when Garon had finished another furious rant about the lack of justice in Nohr, “Align yourself with a greater power.”

“What greater power is there? Nohr has the greatest military in the land, and I am its king.”

“Not worldly. But religiously.” The dark mage stroked his tome as he spoke, and his insinuation clicked into meaning very quickly.

“You’re petitioning me to pledge myself to Anankos?”

“Merely a suggestion, my lord, but one worth considering. His power is vast. And unlike some deities…” Iago’s eyes slid over to the effigy of the Dusk Dragon in a move too calculated to be accidental, “he does not sit in silence promising future aid. He offers immediate gratification, gold and power and glory, and he grants them…as you have seen with me.

“With his power at your fingertips, your people would have no choice but to fall in line. Why, he could even give you strength enough to overthrow Hoshido. Imagine—storming that country, taking their lands and their resources, so your people might never hunger again. Just consider it, is all I ask.”

His words painted a pretty picture, and Garon found himself thinking on them as the days went past and negotiations with Hoshido went nowhere. Abandoning his deity when an ill wind came his way sat wrong with him. Indeed, the Dusk faith preached perseverance even in the face of opposition. But he _had_ seen Anankos’s strength; wasn’t he duty-bound to do the best he could for his country?

When she wasn’t off doing her own secret things, Arete also made her opinion on the Hoshido-Nohr tensions known. Unlike Iago, she was a passionate advocate for peace when he spoke to her about advice. She’d had enough of fighting and death, she claimed, and pushed for him to acquiesce to Hoshidan demands.

He’d listened and “hunted down the criminals” raiding Hoshido, as Sumeragi had asked, hoping that offer of placation would make the Hoshidan king more agreeable. Agreeable enough to offer some of the territory by the Bottomless Canyon, perhaps. Unfortunately, while Sumeragi had thanked him for complying, he wasn’t budging on that front.

Garon ranted about it late one night to Arete, pacing furiously in their suite. She sat in a chair, legs tucked up beneath her and a half-made stave in her hand, watching him move about.

“—and if he weren’t so _stubborn_ —”

“He just wants what’s best for his country, the same as us,” she pointed out.

“Well what’s _best for his country_ isn’t what’s best for mine,” Garon grumbled, finally relenting and sitting next to her. “The fact is, he isn’t offering us anything concrete to seal a peace treaty with. Land would be simple to give, Dusk knows he has plenty of it, but he refused my offer.” Even a small amount of fertile Hoshidan land would be a great boon to barren Nohr. They were doing alright now—it was spring, their best season for harvest, and they’d stocked plenty of food from the raids—but he had to think about the future.

“What about a mutual agreement to lower export taxes, them on food, us on military, sealed with a betrothal?” Arete suggested, and Garon blinked.

A betrothal? Why, that was—that was a fine solution. In fact, it was a perfect one. Forge a formal alliance to get discounts on trade, cease the fighting, and prove to the rest of the world that Nohr was not a mere barbaric country, all wrapped up with the marriage of a prince and a princess. He’d legitimized all his bastards, so it wasn’t even as though offering one of them was impossible. He’d been so focused on getting some of that land diplomatically, he hadn’t even considered this as an option.

“That’s a fine idea!” he exclaimed, smiling and leaning over to kiss her cheek. “I’ll start writing immediately about a match for Xander. Princess Hinoka is the eldest daughter, so—”

“Actually,” Arete interrupted, “I was thinking of betrothing Azura to Prince Kamui.”

Garon stared, the smile dropping. “That’s…an odd request,” he finally said, because it was. In these types of situations usually the eldest were engaged. It wasn’t unheard of to do otherwise, but _odd_. “Why her? And why to the _second_ prince, not the first?”

She shrugged. “You saw how well they got along in Izumo. A betrothal where both parties like each other is stronger than one where they don’t.”

She had a fine point there—his own parents had encouraged his childhood friendship with Katerina for that very reason. But Arete was still offering up her own daughter for a betrothal, which he couldn’t help find at least a little suspicious. He knew how much his wife treasured Azura and disliked political games, so for her to suddenly try and make Azura a part of it was…unusual.

Perhaps he was reading too much into it. Perhaps she was just trying to prove to Nohr that she and Azura were dutiful and committed to their country. But perhaps he wasn’t. He had no way to know, and he _hated_ that.

“Won’t you at least consider it?” she pleaded, seeing the light die from his eyes.

“I am considering it, Arete. And it is a good idea with plenty of merit. But I…” _Don’t understand why you’re so eager to offer up Azura_. “…don’t want to make any rash decisions.”

She stared at him, looking disappointed. “Well, that’s understandable. But you can’t just dither forever and hope things resolve themselves, Garon. Look at what that’s done to the court.”

“I don’t want to argue,” he muttered, shaking his head and turning away. Her words stung, all the more because of how true they were. But most of the time he a decision it had somehow been the wrong one. Not being able to trust your own judgment was a terrible thing.

* * *

One eve, three months after Josie’s murder, as spring died and turned to summer, the tension between him and Arete finally spilled over.

He’d returned to their room from a very long meeting settling a land dispute between two of his nobles. His wife was reading a book about different kinds of shielding spells, one hand jotting down notes next to her. Occasionally she crossed out a phrase or went back, adding in additional footnotes. One her lap was an intricate stave.

“You’re hard at work,” he said, placing his crown on the desk beside her and removing his cape. “What’s that?”

He watched her shoulders tense slightly, then relax. “Just a spell I’ve been trying to create for a while,” she mumbled. “It’s pretty much done, there’s just a wrinkle or two I need to work out.”

A shielding spell of some kind? Interesting. “Do you think you’ll duplicate it when it’s done?” That sometimes happened—most tomes were generic and mass-produced, but customs ones sometimes found their way onto the market, with the original creator’s approval. Iago had won favor very quickly by granting permission to replicate Ginnungagap, and additional copies were being written even now. It would be very rare, expensive, and hard to master, but powerful. Garon predicted only a few elite sorcerers and sorceresses would even be able to muster up a fraction of its true power.

Arete’s mouth twisted bitterly. “I don’t think most would want a stave produced by the queen of Nohr.”

“I would.”

“That’s sweet of you to say,” she chuckled. “How was the meeting?”

“Long. A messenger came in and delivered Sumeragi’s latest reply, so I’ll need to look that over tonight…” As he spoke he pulled the letter, folded neatly into eighths, out of his pocket and placed it on the desk. He knew he was fast running out of time to reach a decision, but he would at least like a hot bath first to soothe his aching muscles. He’d already told a servant to start one.

“The betrothal still seems like a good idea to me,” Arete muttered as he unlaced his boots. “I don’t approve of Iago and the way he goes on about glory and war. Why is he so certain we’ll win?”

Arete and Iago didn’t spend much time together—Iago seemed to disappear every time she showed up, and she was wary of him. It was no surprise she wasn’t aware of his promises, so Garon filled her in. “His confidence comes from the power of his deity. He says Anankos could deliver any victory if we served him—”

A clatter cut his sentence off. The book had dropped out of his wife’s hands. Arete had accidentally stabbed her quill too hard, tearing a hole in her paper, but she didn’t seem to notice as she stared at him, face pale. “Anankos?” she repeated. “You’re certain he said Anankos?”

“I’m positive.” He paused. “Why? Arete, do you know of this deity?”

Her eyes slid away from his. “Nothing concrete,” she said after a pause, “nothing I can say. But Garon—I beg you—we’re so close to peace with Hoshido. Don’t throw that away for promises of glory.”

Garon studied her. She was definitely lying now, he was sure of it. _What else is new,_ the cynical side of him snarked.

Shaking it off, he tried a reasonable approach. “I know. But I have to do what’s best for my country. I’m not dedicating to anything right now—only considering my options.” He took her hands in his. “That’s why…Arete, please, if you know something, anything, _tell_ me, so I can make an informed decision.”

Rather than dismiss him outright, she looked pensive, and his heart leaped. Could he finally be getting some answers from his mysterious wife?

“If…” she said slowly, as though testing water, “if you were willing to go to the Bottomless Canyon with me, I could explain then.”

He stared at her incredulously, that feeling of hope crushed as soon as it had been born. “You want me to leave, go to the Bottomless Canyon, with no explanation?” He pulled his hands away.

She twisted her wedding ring around one finger. “It’s not as bad as you make it sound…”

“Arete, I can’t just run off on an adventure with no reason. I have a duty to my country—a king who goes gallivanting whenever he pleases is a king not worth respecting.”

“There is a reason, I promise, I just…can’t tell you now.”

Garon threw his hands in the air, frustration welling in him. “Oh, you can’t tell me _now_. When, then? When it’s _convenient_ for you? Or maybe never? Do you intend to just dangle vague promises in front of me forever?” Somehow, he’d found himself shouting, and rather than be cowed, as many would, Arete’s eyes flashed with her own anger.

“That is not what I’m doing! I _want_ to explain things, I do, but it’s difficult!”

“How is it difficult? You just need to come out and say it! The only reason you wouldn’t is if you have something to hide!”

“I do, I’ll admit that, but it’s nothing bad—”

“How am I supposed to know that’s true?!” he exploded.

Arete’s mouth moved wordlessly. Garon’s chest heaved with angry breaths, and his fists trembled at his sides. The air between them hung with heavy silence.

When she spoke, she seemed very small, deflated, the anger whizzing out of her like a faulty firework. Her voice was a mere whisper, cracking with pain. “…You _believe_ them? You believe what all the concubines, all the people, are saying about me?”

He rubbed his forehead. “I’ve tried not to,” he growled. “Dusk, I _don’t_ want to! But you aren’t giving me a reason to do otherwise!”

Garon peered at her, hoping desperately Arete would do something, _say_ something, to assuage these worries. Give him some proof that those rumors were only rumors. She did not, and he shook his head and turned away.

“…alright,” she murmured behind him, and he turned, seeing her shoulders slumped in defeat. The sight sent a bolt of guilt through him, but he was too focused on the fact that she was _finally_ relenting to dwell on it. “Alright. I’ll…I’ll tell you everything about me. Just… give me some time to prepare first. A week, that’s all I ask, then I swear on my parents’ souls I’ll tell you.”

“A week,” he agreed. “I’ll hold you to it.” _Then, gods be willing, we can put this whole mess behind us_.

* * *

When the week was up, Garon went to visit Azura before bed, as always. She was already tucked in, playing with something in her hands, her regrown hair falling in front of her face. The occasional sniffle could be heard from her direction.

“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly, the bed dipping as he sat on it.

She jerked up when she saw him, blinking owlishly. “I...was just thinking about something that happened earlier today.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

But she shook her head no. Garon didn’t know what strung worse—how sad her eyes looked, or the fact that she didn’t trust him enough to confide in him, either. She’d stopped calling him _Father_ too. He suspected it was because of her step-siblings, but it still hurt.

Swallowing, he patted her hand. “Alright. But I’m always here if you want to.”

She shrugged, one thin shoulder lifting lightly, obviously skeptical. Garon’s eyes drifted down to what she was holding in her hands—a gleaming pendant, gold with a smooth blue stone in the center. It looked an awful lot like Arete’s pendant.

The king blinked in surprise and took a double glance—no, that _was_ Arete’s pendant. He’d never seen his wife take it off, except for bed. “Is that your mother’s necklace?”

Azura nodded quietly. “Mother…gave it to me for comfort, when she visited me tonight. I…I hope I can return it to her in the morning.”

That was an awfully odd way of phrasing things. But he brushed it off as the oddities of a young girl, stooping to kiss her forehead. “Alright. Get a good nights’ rest, and we’ll see you in the morning.”

“Your Majesty,” her nanny, Cassita, greeted as he exited Azura’s bedroom. The woman’s family had been in service to his for a long time, and she had been Xander’s wet-nurse. She was one of the few he felt he could entrust the “unwanted daughter of Nohr”, as the nobles cruelly sneered, too. He gave her a respectful nod.

Then, he headed off to his and Arete’s suite, determination for answers burning in his heart.

His wife was sitting at the desk in the main room, a fire burning in the hearth and casting golden shadows on her. The quill in her hand was still, and her shoulders were hunched as if a heavy weight were upon them. Her eyes stared blankly at the paper—was it just him, or were they a bit wet?

“Arete?” he called, an odd feeling of foreboding settling upon him.

She jerked, looking up at him, and whatever shine he’d seen in her eyes was gone. “You’re here,” she stated, sounding almost surprised. “So it’s time…”

“Yes,” he agreed, moving to stand in front of her. “It is. Will you tell me everything of your past, now?” _Give me reason to dismiss these rumors._

Her golden eyes closed briefly. “I shall. Just…give me one more moment.” He waited; after a few minutes she moved. Arete dipped her quill in the inkwell and set it to the paper, and then it struck Garon what she was going to do.

His eyebrows arched. “ _Writing_? Arete…”

“Please,” she interrupted. “It’s…easier for me. To write things down than to say them.”

He sighed—what was a bit of strangeness, as long as he got the answers in the end? “Very well.”

Garon stood behind her, so he could peer over her shoulder at the paper. Arete took a deep breath; then, her quill began to dance across the page, in short, hasty strokes so unlike her usual careful penmanship.

_“I used to be royalty. Not just royalty—a queen. A queen of a kingdom destroyed by the very deity Iago wishes you to submit to. I know what you’re thinking—how can you be queen, when I’ve never heard of you or a destroyed kingdom? It used to be well-known, but Anankos cast a spell that cursed its very name. He struck it from the minds of the living and all the history books, and damned it to never be spoken outside its borders again without consequence._

_“My kingdom’s name…was Valla.”_

Valla. A fleeting sensation of familiarity—reading the name in books, learning of relations with it, childhood visits—flickered in Garon’s mind and was gone just as quickly. He shook his head, wondering why it suddenly ached.

He glanced at Arete to see that she had stopped, gasping slightly, and seemed slightly stiff. But, picking up her quill again, she forcefully continued, _“Anankos was our god, once. But he fell prey to madness and evil. Almost five years ago, he destroyed Valla—my sister, the very same Queen Mikoto of Hoshido, and I were separated in the fleeing. Now Anankos desires the end of all humanity. He can’t leave Valla himself, but he’ll manipulate people…you…to bring the destruction he wants. Iago must know this…and be working for him…”_

Her letters were slowing down, becoming sloppier and leaving trails of ink in their wake.

_“The Canyon is the…the way there. That’s why I wanted you to go… so you would jump in and I…could explain things properly…”_

“This is madness,” he muttered, shaking his head and stepping back, “This is—Arete?”

The quill had dropped from her fingers. She was hunched over, clutching her arms and shaking. Alarmed, Garon grabbed her shoulder and yelled as he felt something that was most definitely _not_ skin beneath his hand. It felt smooth and cold, like crystal or ice.

“Arete!” he shouted, dragging the chair out and around to face him. Her face slowly lifted, half-lidded eyes searching for his, and horror spread through him when he saw it. Her skin was _crystallizing_ , a patchwork of flesh and ice. The air around her was chill, and her breath was rattling in pained gasps. As he watched in abject terror, the crystal—oh gods, the crystal began _evaporating_ , melting into water and trailing into the air. Her body was _disappearing_ , pieces passing before his eyes almost too quickly to comprehend. All thoughts of disbelief immediately disappeared from his mind as she collapsed, falling out of the chair into his arms.

“What sorcery is this?!” He turned and shouted at the door as loud as he could, “Guards! Healers! Get a healer immediately!”

“No good," Arete rasped, and Garon returned his attention to her, trembling in his arms. “The curse can’t be healed.”

“It’s spreading so fast,” he said numbly, shocked. “It’s…it’s true?” But of course it was, the proof was right before his eyes. So much was happening his mind didn’t even know what to latch onto first.

She nodded, tears filling her eyes. “I hoped it wouldn’t activate…if I only…wrote the name down…instead of speaking it… Guess I was wrong…”

“Healers!” Garon yelled again, his voice cracking. “How long—no, never mind. You just need to hold on, Arete. Someone will come. You’re not going to die.”

But she seemed to fully believe her fate was sealed, shaking her head and pleading on a different subject instead. “Don’t do…what Iago’s asking. Promise me…you’ll make peace with…Hoshido, and…save this world…”

Where were the damned _healers_? “You’re not going to die,” he repeated numbly, his heart cracking, “You can’t. Don’t leave me. I’m sorry for doubting you, I’m so sorry—”

“ _Promise me_.”

“I—damn it, I promise!”

 “Good,” she breathed. “I—”

But another wrack overcame her, and she screamed. All her visible skin was covered in the crystal now, save her face, and the disintegration was getting faster, larger chunks breaking off. Garon watched in abject dread, hands moving over the patches as if he believed he could hold them down.

_Oh gods, what have I done? If I’d only believed in her—if I’d only ignored those stupid rumors—she wouldn’t have done this. I drove her to this. I drove—_

“Not yet…” Arete moaned, the tears spilling over and down her cheeks, “please…there’s so much left…to explain…”

But her plea went unanswered, as the crystal spread its fingers over the final stretches of her body. The weight in Garon’s arms vanished completely. Water streamed up to the ceiling; hovered; and then fell among him, indoor rain kissing his teary cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, curse of Valla, aka big ol’ plot device. To make this thing actually believable—to explain why Corrin and Azura never tried indirect communication—I had to show why such a thing wouldn’t work. That meant clearing up that it’s not a “speak the name Valla and disappear” curse, it’s a “mention the name Valla at all and disappear” curse. A tad too powerful? Perhaps, but then again Anankos can summon black holes at will, so something like this shouldn’t be beyond him. We also never actually see the curse in action, which is partially why I wanted to write the scene, to give it a bit of oomph. How it kills is pretty much exactly how Azura dies at the end of Birthright just because that seems to be Anankos’s favored method (his servants disappear into water when defeated).


	7. Chapter 7

 

Morning came in the unwelcome form of tugged-off covers and inane chatter in his ear. Garon stared blankly at the ceiling, naked as the day he was born, as to his left his recent bed partner babbled a mile a minute. She had blonde hair and purple eyes, was one of the new palace healers, and that was all Garon knew about her; he couldn’t remember her name or where she came from. He didn’t care to. But she’d been a troubadour assigned to look after him in his depression; she’d been young and pretty and had offered _comfort_ , and he was so miserable he’d taken her up on it.

He’d wanted to forget, and for a little while he’d been able to. But now he just felt even worse than before. The ghost of Arete stared accusingly at him over the woman’s shoulder, asking how he dared enjoy himself when she was barely a month dead. He knew because he’d counted all the seconds of every day that had passed since, playing those final horrifying moments in his head over and over.

 _Why didn’t you believe in me, Garon?_ Arete’s ghost asked above him, face pulled into a disapproving frown.

 _Why didn’t you save me, Father?_ Josie’s and Penelope’s and all his dead children’s ghosts asked, peering up over the bedcovers.

_Why are you such a failure?_

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, blinking back tears.

“Hmmm? Did you say something, Your Majesty?” The annoyingly high-pitched voice grated his ears, and he ground his teeth. The pretty face of his bedmate appeared in the air above him, peering down with exaggerated concern. “Are you not feeling well? Because if you want I can—”

“Get out,” he growled, cutting her off mid-sentence.

The idiot blinked at him owlishly, smile frozen quizzically in place. “Pardon?”

“GET OUT!” Garon roared, jerking up so suddenly she had to step back to avoid their foreheads smacking together. With a yelp the woman scrambled backwards out of the bed, barely collecting her clothes and her dignity before rushing out of the bedroom.

As the door slammed, the king dropped back onto his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. He could have laid there for minutes or hours, for all he knew; he didn’t care. He just…couldn’t go on anymore. The woman he loved was dead, _again_ , this time by his fault. The threat she’d warned him of seemed insurmountable, her note dismissed as the ramblings of a madwoman and forever tarnishing her legacy. Leaving his room just caused the concubines to flock to him, eager vultures ready to pick at his corpse.

He was aware that by lying here, he was neglecting his duties. But he just couldn’t quite care. His advisors were running Nohr for the duration of his ‘illness’, so it wasn’t as if the country would fall apart. Probably for the best, they were probably better suited to it than him. What had he ever done right?

Even the one thing he’d tried to do before his self-imposed exile, getting Iago arrested, had failed. His guards reported that his retainer had somehow managed to escape, and he had soldiers combing the country for him. But they weren’t turning up anything, and Garon knew he wouldn’t be able to keep sending them out for long—he’d been unable to provide a good explanation for why such a “refined and talented young man” should be imprisoned. It made people antsy when you did things like that for no apparent reason. Already the maids whispered that he’d gone mad. And the more fruitless the searches, the less likely people would be willing to go on them, until eventually, their attentions would be directed elsewhere. And then, Iago would get away.

It was hopeless. He didn’t know what to do, and he was so tired of pain. Tired of being offered snippets of happiness, then having them snatched away—by his own mistakes, no less!

It was just easier to…give up.

* * *

More days blended by before a change happened. He’d spent all morning contemplating whether it was worth the effort to get out of bed and close the windows—the last butler to come in had left them open, hoping some fresh air would do him good, but the cold was horrible. He’d finally decided he was uncomfortable enough to, yes, exert some energy, and so he’d risen and grudgingly made his way over. As he reached to grab and close them, the sounds of a commotion reached his ears. He looked down, into the courtyard many stories below.

A large group of children were huddled around something on the ground, jeering and taunting. They were too far for him to hear the exact words, but the vague sounds of their tone were clearly unkind. Garon sighed— _things never change--_ and was about to turn away when one of them shifted aside long enough for a flash of blue to catch his eye.

_Azura…_

She was huddled on the ground, hands over her ears as words rained down on her. It seemed she was being bullied again; probably worse than before, with her mother dead. He stared down, feeling an emotion other than self-loathing break through the fog of his mind.

_I should do something._

_What can you possibly do?_ Self-Loathing immediately asked, gleeful at the chance to be toxic again. _You’ll make things worse again. You always do. And anyway, you’re too far away. Your voice won’t reach them. And it’s not really worth_ all _the effort to leave your room and face the world just to save a girl who isn’t even yours, now is it?_

He clenched his jaw, furiously willing the voice to shut up and his legs to move. A servant chose that moment to step inside, and Garon wheeled on her. “Get the guards!” he snapped, stabbing a finger at the scene down below. “Tell them to go outside and stop that!”

She scrambled to obey, and as an afterthought the king shouted after her, “And have them bring Azura here!”

Then he scrambled to make himself presentable—he’d been wearing the same set of night clothes for the past…how many days now? And when was the last time he’d shaved or combed his hair? Gods, that was disgusting. He wrinkled his nose as he changed into a clean outfit, tossing the dirty clothes aside.

Thirty minutes later, a pair of soldiers stepped inside, Azura between them, and informed him they’d chased her bullies off. Garon stopped the pacing he’d been engaged in for the last twenty minutes—they should have been here long ago—and studied the girl. His heart twisted at how miserable she looked. Her head was down, her shoulder-length hair tangled and her dress muddy. Arete’s pendant was still around her neck, dangling to her stomach, and she was carefully wiping the dirt and grime off it. There was blood matted on a cut on her leg, which she shuffled behind her other when she saw him looking.

He grabbed one of the guard’s elbows and asked, in a low voice, “Where did that blood come from?”

The guard glanced at Azura and leaned in. “A few of the kids had started pelting her with rocks when we arrived. Most were small, but one was large and jagged. It tore her leg open pretty badly—she couldn’t stand on it. We had to fetch a healer to patch it up. That was the cause of the delay, my apologies.”

“It’s fine. You’re dismissed.” The pair snapped off matching salutes and departed, and Garon turned his gaze back to his step-daughter. He crouched down to her level, trying to meet her eyes; she averted them.

Finally, he gently inquired, “Azura…what happened?”

“Nothing,” she instantly answered, “I tripped and fell down the stairs. That’s it.”

“And that gave you a cut on your leg that looks like it’s from a sharp rock? The guards told me what happened, Azura. There’s no point in lying.”

She shuffled her feet and ducked her head, looking very much like a dog expecting to be scolded.

“You don’t care,” she finally mumbled, after a moment of silence. “You’ve left, just like Mom has.”

It was a childish statement, but it cut him to the quick. _You’ve left_. _You aren’t here for me, or for your other kids. You aren’t doing your duty as a father. You don’t care._

His first, immediate emotion was a brief flare of anger. How dare she tell him he didn’t care? He loved her and the rest of them so much, it was literally making him ill! But then he looked at her, standing small and so young, and it drained away.

Because while he did care, she was right that he hadn’t been there for her recently. Or for his other children. Needing time to mourn was one thing, but it was no excuse to neglect his duties as a parent. Shame fell upon him, and Garon took a deep breath, trying to figure out how to explain his actions to a girl this young,

“Azura, did your mother tell you about… that place?”

Azura hesitated and glanced at the door. But then she nodded, slowly, and he continued, “Then you understand that not being able to tell others about it is…difficult. Between that and losing her…”

He looked down. “I admit it, I did leave. I left as a father and as a king. I forgot that I wasn’t the only one who lost someone that day, too, and I gave up. And in doing so I abandoned you, my other children, and my country.

“But I’ll try not to do that anymore. I still have the letter she wrote. It killed her to do so…” The word _killed_ was bitter poison on his tongue. “…but it’s still here.”

She blinked up at him with Arete’s large golden eyes, her lower lip trembling. “I want her back.”

“I do too,” he murmured, bending down and holding the girl close as she started to cry. “But she won’t come back. We can still honor her memory and her wishes, though. I’ll find a way to use her letter to tell others the truth; then her sacrifice won’t have been in vain. That, I think, would make her truly happy.

“I promise, Azura. I won’t give up anymore. I’ll make things better. I’ll start fixing my mistakes, and we can live as a happy family in a safe world.”

* * *

It wasn’t easy to keep that promise, of course; to keep fighting back when life kept kicking him down. But he tried. Starting the next day he left his room and returned to his duties, to comments about how unhealthy he looked. He firmly told off the children who had bullied Azura and, as they were nobles’ children, sent them and their parents away from court—the humiliation and shame was punishment enough. He managed to pen a letter to Sumeragi, offering Azura in engagement to Prince Kamui and requesting a meeting to discuss this at Cheve.

Garon had something vaguely resembling a plan: he still possessed Arete’s letter, resting carefully in his pocket. They would designate a meeting place, make the engagement, and then he would show him what his late wife wrote. It didn’t matter if the king didn’t believe it, because Garon would recapture Iago, and he knew Hoshido had a throne of truth. He’d bring Iago to the meeting and ask Sumeragi to escort him to Shirasagi, then sit him on the throne. Then Iago would be exposed as an agent of Anankos, and his wife could be avenged.

All they had to do was find Iago.

And so, a week later, he saddled up with his men and prepared to set off in search of Iago, hoping that his presence would lure him out. His children all gathered outside in the courtyard to see him off, something they always did when he went off to battle. It was the one time they all got along, united in their concern for their father.

“Be careful, Father,” Xander mumbled as he stepped back, hug finished.

He smiled with a bit more effort than it usually took. But it was better than not smiling at all, as he had been in the past month. “I will.”

Xander nodded awkwardly, and returned to his brothers and sisters. Standing apart from them, Azura's pale face was so hopeful it physically hurt to see, and he privately vowed to never disappoint her or any of his children again after this. He smiled and lifted a hand in farewell, and they all waved back.

And then, before the concubines hovering about could move towards him in a bid of affection, Garon mounted his horse, kicked his heels into it, and set off at a trot, his retinue trailing behind.

* * *

They rode for five days until they reached the last place his spies had reported seeing the man: it was an open place, a rocky field with one of Nohr’s few rivers cutting through it. They came to a halt at the water’s edge and surveyed the area.

“I don’t like this,” Raoul murmured. He’d finally broken out of his depression, requesting to come along once he learned that his lord was going into danger. With two belts of knives strapped to his waist and his gauntlets polished to a shine, his head swiveling like a bird’s, you’d never have thought he was anything less than a battle-hardened veteran.  

Nothing about this had the traditional set up for an ambush—there were no trees, no shadows, nowhere for men to lurk. But Garon understood what his retainer meant, all the same. There was just that itching, uncomfortable feeling, the sort you got when you walked through a shady part of town. He didn’t want to stay here long.

“Fan out in groups of four and find him,” Garon ordered, and his men moved to comply.

Then, magic fell upon them, fire and lightning raining from the skies. Garon’s horse screamed, reared and threw him off. He grunted as he hit the ground, feeling his ribs ache and knowing there’d be a bruise come morning. Standing up, his eyes ran over what had quickly dissolved into a chaotic mess. The magic was still burning in the sky, and around him his soldiers were struggling against...what? He couldn’t see, exactly, but whatever was there was very real—even as he watched one fell over, dead, a bloody wound gaping in her chest. _Where did they come from?_

Instinct yelled a warning, and he spun, grabbing and swinging Bolverk in the same motion. His arms shook as the axe sliced into _something,_ and for the briefest moment it became visible. It looked like a man, but distorted, like he were viewing it through a foggy mirror. Bolverk was embedded in its neck, and his would-be attacked shuddered and dissolved into water. His eyes widened at the familiarity of such a thing.

_Into water…could it be…?_

“And so you finally crawl out of your bed at last. Too late, though: while you’ve been sulking, my master and I have not.”

Garon turned, growling as he recognized the voice. Iago emerged from the shadows, his tome glowing ominously. His eyes were hard. “We know she told you, and that’s a pity. It would have been so much easier if you’d complied willingly. But Anankos can make do with a corpse.”

He raised a hand, and for one brief second their attackers became wholly visible—walking corpses. Then the bodies of his fallen soldiers rose up before Garon’s horrified eyes, their sockets glowing purple. In a dull, monotone voice, they chanted, “King Anankos… King Anankos…”

“You monster!” Garon snarled, outraged as he fell into a battle stance. Mentally he surveyed his odds and found them not very good, but he didn’t care—this was _sacrilege_. “How dare you defile the dead in such a manner?”

“Is it not a king right to use his subjects as he sees fit? All of humanity belongs to Anankos…they just don’t know it yet.” Iago stepped backwards, the air around him glowing brightly as he teleported away.

“Coward!” Garon roared, and then he had no more time to speak as the abominations charged. He spun Bolverk in his hands before bringing it down in a two-handed blow onto the first body. It crumpled easily, and he pulled it out, turning on a foot to cleave the next charging puppet in two. A cavalier charged, lance poised to strike, and he grabbed it, using its momentum to pull it off its horse. It hit the ground hard, and before it could get up he slammed Bolverk into its skull.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see what remained of his men slowly being pressed back by the superior forces. To his left Raoul’s face was grim as he flung his knives with deadly precision. “Lord Garon, you need to retreat!” he yelled, ducking beneath a fighter’s clumsy blow and slipping a blade between its ribs. “Their numbers are—”

And then Raoul stopped talking as a massive head reached down from above and bit him very gorily in two. A rank smell, of fire and rotting corpses, filled Garon’s nostrils as a wyvern screamed. Curling his lip, Garon spun in its direction, raising Bolverk—

Large, amethyst-colored scales. A rider with porcelain skin and golden hair. Doe-brown eyes with purple at the edges, staring blankly into his own.

Garon froze, his axe jerking to a halt inches away from the rotting wyvern’s face. “Katerina?” he breathed.

Icarus shrieked in his face, head rearing back to bite, and the king barely had time to throw himself aside. His _wife_ —no, no, it couldn’t be her—grabbed a heavy tomahawk out of a holster. Her eyes were completely empty as she sent it spinning through the air towards him; Garon barely had time to raise Bolverk to block it. The grating screech of steel on steel sent his ears ringing.

“Katerina!” he yelled as the tomahawk fell at his feet, “It’s me, Garon! Don’t you recognize me?”

She spoke then, her voice toneless. “I don’t know any Garon.”

And then there was no more time to talk, as she grabbed a silver axe and swung it down at him. Fighting fliers was a pain; they had a mobility advantage, you had to handle both the rider and the animal’s combined attacks, and they were prone to leaping into the air and out of danger. And even dead Icarus was still intelligent. He and Katerina had been fighting together since she was old enough to ride him, and their timing was perfect, his lunges interspersed with her axe swings. It was all Garon could do to hold them off, sweat trickling down his forehead as his arms ached in effort to parry blow after blow.

Relief came in the form of Katerina mis-timing her swing, her axe a fraction too fast for Icarus to cover, and Garon seized the opportunity. He dodged the wyvern’s next clumsy strike, slipping under his reach, and crashed Bolverk’s flat side into Katerina’s femur. She let out a soft grunt of pain, her armor cushioning the blow somewhat, but not enough to hide the sharp _crack_ of bone. He jammed the butt of the axe into her side, and it was enough to make her lose her balance and fall off.

Icarus reared back, mouth open as he prepared to defend her, and Garon sliced open his belly. Blood spilled onto him, and the wyvern screamed in pain. Instinct overcame training for the moment, and he huddled down, abandoning the battle to curl around his torn-open stomach.

Garon stepped past him to where Katerina had fallen. He looked down at his _supposed to be dead_ wife, defenseless for the moment as she struggled to stand on a broken leg, hands futilely reaching for the axe just out of her grasp. And as he brought Bolverk up, poised to come down on her, he made his final mistake of the night.

He hesitated.

In this pose, arms in the air and away from his body, he was a completely open target. Pain shot through him so suddenly he almost didn’t recognize it. Then he thought he’d imagined it, blinking in surprise. But then his eyes dropped down to the icicle in his chest; cold emanated from it, and the tip was beaded with blood. It had come from behind, and he turned, looked over his shoulder. And when he did, Garon saw his second despair of the night.

Blue hair. Gold eyes. Black robes. A slim hand, holding a blue tome, while her second was outstretched in his direction, a few snowflakes still dancing around the fingertips.

Blood was filling his mouth, but he managed to cough enough aside to attempt to speak. “Dusk, no…”

Arete’s eyes were the last thing he saw as his vision went black and the ground rushed up to meet him. Her dispassionate, uncaring, _dead_ eyes. Gold rimmed with purple.

History, when it bothered to remember King Garon, would only remember him as the lost king who fell prey to an outside force he could not hope to combat, a stepping stone paving the way for greater things.

* * *

As the body of King Garon fell and landed in the river with a splash, blood seeping into the water, Iago laughed. It wasn’t a happy laugh; it was a laugh of relief, an exultation. The laugh of a man who has just been told he’s been delivered from the chopping block. He laughed with such force it shook the entirety of his thin body.

When he finally stopped, he took a moment to compose himself, even though he was the only living being nearby. Iago snapped his fingers at Arete. “Patch her and her wyvern up, then go hunt down any survivors.”

She inclined her head, withdrawing a staff and making her way to the other queen. As the soft blue glow of healing light emanated from the women, Iago crouched by Garon’s body. He pressed two fingers into his neck, confirming the lack of a pulse. _It’s really done, then. I really did it._

The glow stopped, and a moment later he heard the sounds of the undead queens riding off on their mounts. There were no bodies littered on the battlefield; the corpses of the fallen had immediately been seized and made new members of Anankos’s army. The battle over, they now stood motionless as they awaited orders. Iago waved a hand, directing them to return to Valla. The dragon would be pleased by tonight’s events, he hoped. If he wasn’t…

Repressing a shudder, Iago began searching Garon’s corpse. It didn’t take long before his hands patted down a crumpled sheet of paper. The dark mage pulled it out and unfolded it, eyes running over the words.

Behind him came the voice he’d learned to dread. “And so you deliver Nohr into my hands.” There was no _thank you,_ no _good job_. In Anankos’s eyes, success was _expected_.

Iago rose and turned in its direction, doing his very best not to flinch at the sight of the corpse. From the Nohrian insignia on its armor and the still-fresh blood oozing out of a head wound, it must have been one of Garon’s fallen soldiers. It looked like it had been a swordswoman in life, but now it was just another of Anankos’s tools. When the mouth opened, Anankos’s deep voice emerged instead of a woman’s high one. “Now, report.”

He kneeled, keeping his eyes on the soil. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

It was Anankos who came up with this plan, not him; the plan to subvert Garon and bring him under Anankos’s sway with a carefully-placed advisor. With the great amount of tragedy in his life, he would have been a prime target for corruption and possession, except that blasted woman had reached him first. She’d plugged his ears against Anankos, and so they had to go this route.

Iago wasn’t certain why Anankos had chosen him, out of all the agents, to infiltrate Garon’s ranks; perhaps because he was one of the few who actually did have some martial skill. Many of Valla’s soldiers and magicians had died in the coup, and the majority of those who’d bowed to Anankos were only common folk, fishers and bakers who saw no other option; Iago was one of the few who weren’t. He’d been only a teenager at the time, but he’d been studying magic at the palace, and he’d had enough common sense to just swear fealty instead of resist.

So yes, he was a coward. Was that really so wrong, though? He didn’t want to die! He didn’t want to die and be raised as one of those _things,_ those awful undead abominations that had souls but no memories, no wills of their own. If he were going to be in endless servitude anyway, he’d at least like to remain himself in doing so. So yes, he betrayed Valla by bending his knee to their new ruler. Was that really so wrong?

He justified his actions to himself every single day in this manner. Why fight something you couldn’t even beat? It was just survival. Anyone would do the same. He wasn’t at fault.

Gradually, it was becoming easier to believe.

“As we know, Queen Arete warned King Garon about you, triggering the curse and dying in the process. He spent the next month in a deep depression, giving me time to set up his…removal.” Presenting the letter he’d found, the raven-haired man continued, “A few days ago, the king came out of his depression with renewed vigor, and I believe he was planning to ally with Hoshido again you. Here, you see, he was writing a letter to King Sumeragi, arranging for a meeting in Cheve to discuss peace. I’ll get about to burning it right awa—”

“No,” the puppet said abruptly. “No. Give me the letter.”

Iago blinked, but did so, trying not to shiver as the corpse’s cold, rotting fingers brushed against his own. The puppet leaned in and peered at the letter, glowing eyes narrow at first, then growing wide and fascinated. Its mouth curled into a manic sneer. “A betrothal between my son and that woman’s brat,” it said softly. “How delightful.”

Anankos laughed, handing the letter back. “I want this sent off. Find a suitable location, one where you have the advantage. Bid the Hoshidans come to this meeting, and when they do, ambush them. Kill the king and any else who try stop you, and take back my son.”

Iago almost, _almost_ asked why he wanted his son alive, not dead—after all, wasn’t Anankos’s prophecy about how the boy would someday rise up and slay him? If so, wasn’t just killing him now the best way to secure his future? But the words died before they’d even finished forming in his mouth. The god was insane, that was all there was to it. Questioning him could result in anything from an explanation to an execution, and Iago had not worked so hard to keep his neck to lose it now.

So he smiled and kept his forehead touching the dirt, the picture of complacency. “As you bid, Your Majesty.”

“Destroy the letter Arete wrote. After that, you will stay by this one’s side,” Anankos commanded, gesturing to the now-stirring corpse of King Garon. “And assist him in building Nohr into a new, even more militant machine. I’ve left his soul and memories in there, twisted into obedience to me, so I don’t have to possess him all the time; I have to focus on hunting down that _fake._ ”

The imposter Anankos, right. The one who’d been hopping from world to world to stay ahead of this Anankos. Iago was just glad he wasn’t among those sent after him; none of them had returned so far.

With that final order given, the puppet turned and stepped back into the water, travelling through it back to Valla. And so Iago was left alone by the riverside, in the dead of night with the king’s waking body.

Garon’s eyes snapped open, the irises flaring bright purple for a brief instant; then the flames flickered out, retreating to just the edges, so that there was just a thin ring of the color around his regular red eyes. His skin was tinged gray, likely a side effect of the drowning.

“Are you alright, my king?” Iago asked with exaggerated affect, bending down to pull him out of the water. Water dripped off his hair, and a poetic part of him noted this was rather like a baptism, in a way. “Speaking to King Anankos can be quite taxing.”

Leaving his puppets their souls didn’t stop Anankos from taking them over; it just made them autonomous, able to think and speak with intelligence versus the mindless mass that could only obey orders. This was the first time Anankos had left one of them their memories, even—if he had to guess—twisted to paint himself in a favorable light. Presumably it was so Garon could run the country effectively.

Special case aside, Iago was all in all prepared for the raspy voice that answered him. “I am fine. I was merely dreaming of the greatness King Anankos promised.”

“Ah, I see. And did you like it?”

Bloodless lips pulled into a truly unnerving smile. “I liked it very much. You, Iago… when we return to Windmire, I’ll clear up your banishment and restore your position at my side. You were merely trying to show me the glory of Anankos, and I was a fool for rejecting it. But now I know better.”

“Most gracious of you,” Iago pretended to fawn, and the thing waved a flippant hand. “It’s not gracious at all. Only doing what’s right. We both serve the same master, after all.”

And as Iago left to see if he could recover any living horses to bring them back to Windmire, the corpse puppet of King Garon Aurelius smiled manically. “Hoshido…you will fall.

“King Anankos wills it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And so Garon’s story comes to a close. Sadly, there really was no way for it to end happily, since as we all know in canon, he’s nothing but a slime monster under Anankos’s control. This is probably why it took me a while to get this and last chapter out—writing depressing stuff makes me depressed, and thus les motivated. The game is unfortunately vague on what actually happened to Garon, whether he was possessed like Takumi/Gunter or killed and his corpse animated; I lean towards the latter, since he lacks the purple glow Takumi and Gunter had.
> 
> If you’re wondering at some unfinished business—some of the concubines and kids still being alive, namely—that’s because, according to the Nohrian royals, the infighting didn’t stop until after Elise was born. That’s months from now, so some of them had to survive (including Bernice and Vesta, mostly so they could keep “protecting” Camilla and Leo). The lady we see in the beginning is indeed Elise’s mom, by the way. Azura’s attempt to run away also doesn’t occur ‘til later, after Gooron returns, though I really wanted to include it here. Instead you just get the event of her B-support with Saizo.
> 
> Thank you to all who read, fav’d, followed, reviewed, or even just looked at this story! I hope you enjoyed the ride, and I will hopefully see you later! <3


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